mmutmiumi  iiiiiiiiiiuiiwwmiiw  mmmmmmmmmmtmimmmmtmmmmmiim 


9Å»  «A»  «A*  «Ju»  *Aø  «A#  «A*  %A»  «A»  «X»  «A*  «X*  -tJU  «A)»  «Aj»  :«' 


C)  #^  9^  tfy^  •yn  Ml  «y^  «y»  «v»  »yni  «y«  »ibn  «^  «%^  «|r»  *^^ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


PICTURES  OF   TRAVEL 


IN   SWEDEN,    AMONG   THE   HARTZ    MOUNTAINS, 

AND   IN   SWITZERLAND,  WITH  A  VISIT  AT 

CHARLES    DICKENS'S    HOUSE. 


BY 

HANS   CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN, 

AUTHOR   OF   "THE   IMPROVISATORE,"   "A   POET's   BAZAAR,"   ETC 


3ilut^orV  <JBtiitioiu 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  AND   COMPANY. 


/  \  -  ^ 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

HuRD  AND  Houghton, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


RIVERSIDE,   CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED    AND     PRINTED    BY 

H.   O.    HOUGHTON   AND   COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


RAMBLES    IN   THE   HARTZ   MOUNTAINS. 
CHAPTER   I. 

PAGB 

THE    SETTING    OUT.  —  THE    SEA.  —  THE    RIVER    TRAVE.  —  LUBECK. 

—  ST.  Mary's  church.  —  "  the  dance  of  death."  —  m^ands- 

BECK  .1 

CHAPTER  n. 

HAMBURG.  —  A  SIMPLE   STORY.  —  THE  THEATRE.  —  A  VISIT   OUT  OF 

TOWN.  —  THE   DREAM,  AN    IDYL.  —  THE   TWO   CHARACTERS    .  .         9 

CHAPTER  III. 

VIERLANDE.  —  THE  TRAVELLER  AND  THE   DWELLER  ON  THE   HEATH. 

—  THE    SCHOOL-MISTRESS.   —   LYNEBORG.   —    THE   ELVES   ON  THE 
HEATH 17 

CHAPTER  IV. 

BRUNSWICK.  —  "three  DAYS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  GAMESTER." — A 
CONTINUATION  OF  THE  SAME.  —  THE  MOTHER  AND  SON.  —  WAN- 
DERING IN  THE  TOWN.  —  DEPARTURE.  —  THE  OLD  SCHOOL-MAS- 
TER     25 

CHAPTER  V. 

GOSLAR.  —  THE    MINES.  —  THE   SPIDER.  —  BEAUTIFUL    MATILDA,    A 

LEGEND.  —  ILSE.  —  THE  BROCKEN 34 

CHAPTER  VI. 

MORNING.  —  BAUMANN's  CAVE.  —  THE  ANTIQUARY.  —  BLANKEN- 
BURG 47 

CHAPTER  VIL 

THE   RUINS   OF   REGENSTEIN.  —  THE  TAILOR'S   WIFE.  —  ROSZTRAPPE. 

—  A   TOUR  TO   ALEXIS   BATHS 53 


IV  •  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

PAGO 
PICTURES  ON  WANDERING  TO  EISLEBEN.  —  MARTIN  LUTHER    .  .      63 

CHAPTER  IX. 

A  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HALLE  AND  MERSEBURG  TO  LEIPSIC.  —  THE 
BLIND    MOTHER.  —  ST.    NICHOLAS    CHURCH.  —  GELLERT's    GRAVE. 

—  AUERBACH   CELLAR     . 68 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  DEPARTURE.  —  MEISSEN.  —  THE  FIRST  DAY  IN  DRESDEN.  —  DAHL 
AND  TIECK 73 

CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  PICTURE-GALLERY.  —  "  DAS  GRUNE  GEWOLBE."  —  THE  ARMORY. 

—  A   TOUR  TO   SAXON   SWITZERLAND.  —   PILLNITZ.  —   LOHMEN.  — 
OTTOWALDER  GRUND.  —  BASTEI.  —  WOLF'S  GORGE.  —  HOHENSTEIN. 

—  KUHSTALL .  .  ,  .78 

CHAPTER  XII. 

A  TOUR   INTO    BOHEMIA.  —  THE   RETURN  BY  WAY   OF   PIRNA.  —  SON- 

NENSTEIN.  —  MY   LAST   DAYS   IN   DRESDEN 90 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

ADALBERT  VON  CHAMISSO.  —  THE  THEATRES  IN  BERLIN.  —  THE 
THIERGARTEN.  — THE  PICTURE-GALLERY.  —  SPANDAU.  — AN  AD- 
VENTURE.—  THE   BIRD.  — THE   JOURNEY'S   END       .  .  .  .    lOI 


WE  TRAVEL 


TROLLHATTA 


PICTURES   OF  SWEDEN. 
I. 


11. 


"3 


THE   BIRD   PHCENIX 


KINNAKULLA 


III. 


IV. 


123 


CONTENTS.  V 

V 

PAGB 

GRANDMOTHER I27 

VI. 

THE  PRISON-CELLS •    I29 

VII. 

BEGGAR  BOYS I3I 

Vlll. 

WADSTENA  133 

IX. 

THE  PUPPET  SHOWMAN  .  I49 

X. 

THE  SKJARGAARDS I54 

XI. 

STOCKHOLM .  .   159 

XII. 

DIURGARDEN  .  .  I65 

XIII. 

A  STORY 168 

XIV. 

UPSALA  .  .  .  .  .  .  ...    173 

XV. 

SALA ....   184 

XVI. 
THE   MUTE   BOOK I87 

XVII. 

THE  SATHER  DALE 189 

XVIII. 
THE  MIDSUMMER  FESTIVAL  IN  LEKSAND I93 

XIX. 

AT  THE  LAKE  OF   SILJAN I98 


VI  CONTENTS. 

XX. 

PAGB 
FAITH   AND  KNOWLEDGE     .  209 

XXI. 

IN   THE   FOREST 213 

XXII. 

FAHLUN 217 

XXIIL 

WHAT  THE  STRAWS   SAID    ....  .  .  .      222 

XXIV. 

THE  poet's  symbol   ...  224 

XXV. 

THE  DAL-ELV       .  .  227 

XXVI. 
PICTURES  AD  INFINITUM .      232 

XXVII. 
DANNEMORA .     235 

XXVIII. 
THE  SWINE  .  ....  ...      239 

XXIX. 
POETRY'S   CALIFORNIA  .  .  ...      242 

IN  SWITZERLAND. 
I. 

RAGATZ .  .  •  .      251 

II. 
THE  LION  AT  LUCERNE        ....  .  .     257 

III. 
THE  CELEBRATION   AT  OBERAMMERGAU 260 

A  VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE        .    267 


RAMBLES 

IN 

THE   HARTZ   MOUNTAINS. 


RAMBLES 


THE   HARTZ   MOUNTAINS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  SETTING   OUT.  —  THE   SEA.  —  THE    RIVER   TRAVE.  —  LU- 
BECK.  —  ST.  Mary's  church.  —  "  the  dance  of  death." 

WANDSBECK. 

"  Wenn  jemand  eine  Reise  thut, 
So  kann  er  was  verzahlen,"  ^ 

SAYS  Claudius  ;  but  whether  any  one  will  listen  to  the 
narrative,  is  another  affair.  We  live  in  an  age  when  great 
historical  events  succeed  each  other  without  intermission  — 
when  in  one  twelvemonth  more  is  developed  than  in  any  ten 
years  formerly  •  meteor  follows  meteor  in  the  political  firma- 
ment ;  how,  then  shall  one  have  time  to  notice  the  individual, 
aspiring  spirit?  The  world  now  acts  ;  it  works  for  the  coming 
poet-race,  who  shall  make  our  time  immortal.  But  if  the  wings 
grow  the  bird  will  also  flutter  ;  and  if  there  be  war  or  peace, 
marriage  or  burial,  the  bird  will  sing  its  song  until  its  poet- 
ical heart  break.  There  is  always  one  or  other  kindred  soul 
to  be  found,  in  the  midst  of  this  great  world's  bustle,  that  is 
refreshed  by  its  tones ;  and  more  than  this  the  little  citizen  of 
the  sky  cannot  demand.  But  if  now  he  be  a  vain  bird —  and 
such  are  for  the  most  part  young  poets, — so  will  it  attract  lis- 
teners, be  original,  and  then  often  twitter  and  chirp  with  quite 
another  bill  than  that  our  Lord  and  Master  gave  him.  This 
really  answers  sometimes !  —  aye,  the  more  absurd  the  poet- 
ical screech  becomes,  so  much  the  more  is  it  remarked;  it 

1  When  we  travel  we  can  tell  something. 


2  /GAMBLES  LV  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

gathers  a  party  amongst  the  public ;  and  now  the  one  shows 
itself  more  original  than  the  other,  for  who  will  not  be  heard 
when  he  first  enters  the  lists  as  a  singer  ? 

If  I  must  be  sincere,  it  was  just  in  this  way  that  it  hapj^ened 
to  me  when  I  thought  of  describing  this  journey  of  mine.  I 
determined  that  my  recital  should  be  in  an  original  manner, 
and  I  had  also  arranged  the  whole  before  I  travelled ;  got  my 
fair  readers  and  those  of  the  other  sex  seated,  and  would  now 
give  them  the  whole  journey  dramatically  ;  this,  thought  I,  will 
be  a  new  mode  of  treating  a  narrative  of  travels.  Thus,  it 
was  to  be  a  travelling  drama,  with  overture,  prologue,  and  in- 
terludes. In  the  interludes  the  public  were  to  be  satirical,  but 
in  the  prologue  I  would  myself  be  so.  The  overture  must  be 
performed  by  a  full  orchestra  ;  the  assembled  throng  by  the 
Custom-house  which  I  would  employ  as  Turkish  music  ;  the 
waves  should  play  a  roaring  crescendo,  and  the  birds  and  young 
ladies  on  '■'■the  lojig  line,"^  give  forth  a  soft  adagio.  On  the 
steam-vessel,  I  should  certainly  find  passengers  that  I  could  in 
haste  form  into  instruments,  and  my  own  heart  should  have  per- 
mission to  play  a  short  solo  on  the  harp.  Thus,  I  thought  that 
in  this  overture  from  Copenhagen  to  Lubeck  there  would  be 
changes  enough.  At  Travemiinde,  the  prologue  should  begin, 
and  at  Lubeck  the  piece  itself ;  when  adventure  on  adventure, 
scene  after  scene,  should  link  themselves  to  each  other.  I  had 
not  as  yet  seen  any  travels  described  in  this  manner  :  thus 
mine  should  be  —  and  I  travelled. 

Strange  places  with  strange  persons  succeeded  each  other  ; 
a  new  world  opened  itself  to  me  between  the  mountains  ;  God's 
glorious  nature  surrounded  me  ;  there  was  no  assumed  origi- 
nality, and  yet  it  looked  quite  original,  it  being  itself  alone. 
After  all,  thinks  I  to  myself,  is  this  novel  plan  of  mine  a  right 
one  ?  and,  before  I  was  fully  aware  of  it,  all  the  self-formed 
original  ideas  had  evaporated  —  and  I  thought.  I  will  give 
my  thoughts  as  I  received  them  ;  if  they  are  not  original,  the 

^  "  T7ie  long  lifte  "  or,  as  it  is  called  in  Danish,  "  Lange-linie,'"  is  a  fine 
promenade  along  the  sea-shore,  commencing  at  the  Custom-house,  and 
extending  beyond  the  Citadel,  toward  the  Sound.  It  affords  a  fine 
prospect  of  the  sea,  the  shipping,  the  holm,  or  dock-yard,  and  the  Swedish 
coast  —  Translator. 


THE  SETTING   OUT.  3 

reason  is,  because  I  myself  am  a  copy  :  and  yet  that  is  not 
probable ;  for  if  the  one  leaf  on  a  tree  be  not  a  copy  of  the 
other,  how  can  the  man  in  his  whole  natural  state  be  so  ? 

The  overture,  prologue,  and  interludes  accordingly  are  lost, 
but  nevertheless  we  may  as  well  remain  seated  :  I  will  open 
my  heart,  and  show  there  the  varied  row  of  pictures  the  jour- 
ney conjured  forth.  We  will  not  spread  out  a  sheet  upon  the 
wall  —  it  causes  too  much  trouble  ;  we  have  the  white  leaves 
of  the  book  —  here  now  stand  the  pictures  ;  only  slightly 
sketched,  it  is  true,  yet  we  must  remember  that  they  are  but 
dissolving  views,  or  the  shadowy  pictures  of  reality.  We  have 
plains  and  mountains,  towns  and  fantastic  places  —  some  few 
parts  even  are  drawn  in  haste  with  pen  and  ink.  The  poet  is 
not  second  to  the  painter  ! 

A  foreground  with  a  little  lawn, 

A  tree —  be  sure  'tis  lightly  drawn  ! 

•A  cloud  —  quick-coursing  through  the  sky, 

A  picture  these  at  once  supply  ! 

But  for  a  poem  —  ere  'tis  gone, 

Confess  the  scene  before  you  one. 

But  now  the  steamer  is  off  to  Lubeck.  The  coast  is  in  mo- 
tion already !  will  it  take  the  start  of  us,  that  we  may  not  run 
away  from  it  ?  No,  it  is  we  !  the  black  column  of  smoke  rises 
from  the  chimney,  the  wheels  cleave  the  watery  mirror,  and 
there  stretches  a  long  furrow  behind  us  in  the  sea. 

"  O  travelling  !  travelling !  "  —  it  is  the  happiest  lot,  and 
therefore  we  all  travel  ;  everything  in  the  whole  universe 
travels  j  even  the  poorest  man  possesses  Thought's  winged 
horse,  and  if  he  become  weak  and  old,  Death  takes  him  with 
him  on  the  journey — the  great  journey  we  must  all  make. 
The  waves  roll  from  coast  to  coast,  the  clouds  sail  along  the 
wide  heavens,  and  the  birds  fly  over  field  and  meadow.  We 
all  travel ;  even  the  dead  in  their  silent  graves  course  with  the 
earth  around  the  sun.  Yes,  —  "  To  travel !  "  —  it  is  a  strange 
fancy  with  the  whole  universe  ;  but  we  are  children  ;  we  will 
also  play  at  "  travelling  "  in  the  midst  of  our  own  and  the  great 
natural  journey  of  things. 

The  sea  lay  before  me  like  a  mirror ;  not  a  wave  rippled 
the  broad  surface.     It  is  delightful  to  sail  between  sea  and 


4  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

sky,  whilst  the  heart  sings  its  yearning  sense  of  pleasure,  and 
the  spirit  sees  the  significant,  changing,  resonant  figures  that 
arise  from  these  tuneful  waves. 

The  heart  and  the  sea  are,  however,  strangely  allied.  The 
sea  is  the  world's  great  heart  :  therefore  it  roars  so  deeply  in 
the  stormy  night ;  therefore  it  fills  our  breast  with  sadness  or 
enthusiasm,  when  the  clear  starry  firmament  —  that  great 
image  of  eternity —  shows  itself  on  its  quiet  surface.  Heaven 
and  earth  are  reflected  in  the  sea  as  in  our  hearts  ;  but  the 
heart  of  man  never  becomes  as  quiet  as  the  ocean,  after  life's 
storm  has  shaken  it  to  the  centre.  Yet  our  life-time  here,  how 
insignificant  compared  with  the  duration  of  that  great  world's 
bodies  !  In  a  moment  we  forget  our  pain,  even  the  deepest ; 
in  a  moment  the  great  sea  also  forgets  its  storms,  for  to  a 
world's  body  weeks  and  days  are  but  moments. 

But  I  am  growing  quite  loquacious.  It  was  even  thus  that 
I  told  many  stories  to  a  little  child  as  it  sat  on  my  lap  —  stories 
that  I  myself  thought  pretty,  very  pretty.  The  child  looked 
me  in  the  face  with  its  large  eyes  :  I  really  thought  that  my 
tales  made  it  happy,  for  I  began  to  feel  amused  by  relating 
them  to  the  little  attentive  thing.  In  the  most  interesting  part 
I  interrupted  myself,  and  said,  "  What  do  you  think  of  it?  " 
and  the  child  answered,  "  You  chatter  so  much !  "  Perhaps 
you  are  of  the  same  opinion,  dear  reader  ?  But,  then,  only 
think  we  have  in  the  mean  time  sailed  over  the  whole  Baltic, 
passed  St-ævus  cliff,  with  its  wandering  church,^  Moen's  white 
chalk  cliffs,  where  the  woods  already  began  to  be  green,  and 
Laaland  itself,  where  the  red  beacon  burnt  in  the  dusky  night. 
The  sun  has  again  risen,  and  it  is  beautiful  to  see,  but  most  of 
the  passengers  are  asleep,  certainly  thinking  like  Arv :  "  The 
morning  is  very  fine,  only  it  would  be  as  well  if  it  did  not 
come  so  early  in  the  day." 

At  length  they  came  forth  from  the  nether  world,  the  one 
after  the  other.  The  deck  was  the  free  saloon  for  conversa- 
tion, where  one  might  come  and  go  as  one  listed  ;  our  thoughts 

^  A  story  current  in  Zealand  tells  us  that  the  church  on  Stævus  cliff  re- 
cedes a  cock-stride  every  year  from  the  sea ;  and  that  although  the  waves 
of  the  Baltic  continually  wash  away  some  part  of  the  coast  here,  yet  the 
church  remains  the  same  distance  inland.  —  Translator. 


THE  RIVER   TRAVE.  5 

did  the  same,  and  the  heart  said  one  thing  here  and  another 
thing  there  ;  but  I  heard  all. 

The  heart  dreams  of  its  love  on  the  sea's  glassy  surface. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  whole  of  nature  that  shows  a  bodily 
image  of  this  life's  holy  mysteries  more  than  the  great,  the 
glorious  sea,  which,  like  the  sky,  encompasses  the  whole  earth, 
and  shows  its  infinity  on  its  tranquil  surface.  Love  is  also  a 
depth  like  the  sea,  on  whose  foundation  life  and  death  build, 
whilst  Hope  lets  her  richly  laden  barks  sail  from  coast  to 
coast. 

T  looked  on  the  wide  sea,  and  felt  myself  happy.  There 
stood  a  Berliner  by  my  side  and  made  jests  :  he  also  felt 
happy.  The  steamer  sped  on,  we  approached  land,  and  then 
—  then  the  other  passengers  were  also  happy  ! 

We  had  nearly  missed  the  entrance  to  the  Trave,  for  a  thick 
fog  extended  itself  over  the  whole  coast ;  but  fortune  favored 
us ;  we  hit  the  right  point,  came  in,  and  now  the  whole  of  the 
fog-covered  land  lay  behind  us. 

It  was  as  if  a  curtain  rolled  up.  In  the  foreground  stood 
the  beautiful  bathing-house  and  the  high  light-house,  —  round 
about  were  green  fields  and  woods,  and  the  warm  summer  air 
streamed  toward  us. 

To  the  left  lay  the  little  peninsula,  Priwall,  where  the  cattle 
ventured  half  out  in  the  water,  and  presented  to  us  a  living  pict- 
ure, such  as  Paul  Potter  delighted  in,  with  its  large,  airy  back- 
ground, and  the  charming  groups  of  animals.  To  the  right  lay 
Travemiinde,  with  its  red  roofs  ;  round  about  one  could  see 
the  heads  of  men  and  girls  peeping  out  of  the  windows  :  they 
looked  pretty  in  the  distance.  O  yes!  —  "distance  :"  it  is, 
however,  life's  magical  fairy-land  —  that  spiritual  Fata  Morgana 
which  continually  eludes  us  as  we  come  nearer  to  it.  In  the 
distance  lie  childhood's  dreams,  and  life's  hopes  and  expecta- 
tions ;  in  the  distance,  the  wrinkles  are  smoothed  on  the  fur- 
rowed brow,  and  the  gray-haired  grandmother  stands  like  a 
hale,  blooming  girl.  Perhaps  it  was  the  case  here  with  the 
beauties  of  Travemiinde. 

The  Trave  now  became  smaller ;  the  steamer  seemed  as  if 
it  would  take  its  whole  breadth.  We  soon  saw  Lubeck,  with 
its  seven  towers,  peeping  forth  between  wood  and  meadow  ; 


6  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

but  it  played  strangely  at  "  bo-peep  ;  "  sometimes  it  was  here, 
sometimes  there.  It  lay  under  the  green  table  which  nature 
has  here  spread  out  with  woods  and  luxuriant  pastures.  The 
many  windings  of  the  river  make  it  appear  as  if  one  did  not 
rightly  know  whether  one  sails  to  or  from  the  town.  Thus  it 
is  that  we  sail  on  life's  great  stream,  where  often  we  are  so 
childish  as  to  weep,  nay,  even  to  doubt  the  steersman's  guid- 
ance, because  the  aim  of  our  wishes,  like  Lubeck,  plays  at 
"  bo-peep  "  with  us  ;  yet  it  is  the  right  way  we  go,  but  we  know 
not  the  course  of  the  stream,  as  we  only  once  in  life  sail  up  it. 

What  a  changing  picture  !  what  a  living  idyl  is  the  whole  of 
this  country !  Here  the  river  forms  a  little  bay ;  here  is  a 
fishing  village,  where  the  nets  hang  in  the  sun,  stretched  out 
between  the  trees  yonder ;  on  the  hill  rises  a  village  with  its 
church,  and  in  the  river  itself  is  a  steamer  foaming  between 
the  green  rushes. 

We  now  entered  through  an  old  arched  gateway,  with  thick 
walls  on  either  side,  the  free  Hanse  Town, 

LUBECK. 

Here,  what  with  the  old  houses,  with  their  pointed  gables, 
narrow  side-streets,  and  our  memory  which  casts  an  historical 
drapery  over  the  whole,  we  fancy  ourselves  carried  a  century 
back :  these  angular  buildings,  these  stone  heroes  on  the  sen- 
ate-house, and  the  stained-glass  windows  of  the  old  church  we 
came  past  looked  thus  when  George  WoUenweber -^  spake  a 
powerful  word  in  the  senate.  The  churches  here  being  open, 
also  lead  us  to  think  of  Catholicism  ;  and  many  an  image 
here,  although  it  be  not  a  work  of  art,  impresses  us  by  its 
poetical  conception  or  its  antiquit}^ 

In  St.  Mary's  Church  I  saw  the  famed  astronomical  clock- 
work, and  the  still  more  famous  cycle  of  paintings,  called 
"  The  Dance  of  Death."  Every  rank,  every  age,  from  the 
Pope  to  the  child  in  the  cradle,  is  here  invited  to  take  a  part 
in  Death's  cotillon,  and  all   in  the   costume  of  the  time  in 

1  George  Wollenweber  took  an  active  part  in  the  so-called  Lubeck  feud, 
during  the  exile  of  Christian  II.  of  Denmark,  and  whilst  Christian  III. 
was  king,  when  the  Lubeckers  obtained  great  commercial  privileges.  — 
Translator. 


"  THE  DANCE   OF  DEA  TH."  Jf 

which  they  were  painted,  which  is  said  to  have  been  in  the 
year  1463.  Under  each  figure  stands  a  verse  in  Low  German 
—  a  dialogue  between  the  dancers  :  these  verses,  however,  are 
not  the  original  old  rhymes,  but  a  later  poetical  attempt  made 
about  1 70 1.  It  appeared  to  me  as  if  the  painter  had  placed 
an  ironical  smile  in  the  dancing  skeltons' faces,  that  seemed 
as  if  it  would  say  to  me  and  the  whole  company  of  spectators 
who  were  here,  and  made  their  remarks  on  it,  "You  imagine, 
now,  that  you  are  standing  still,  or  at  most  walking  about  in  St. 
Mary's  Church,  and  looking  at  the  old  pictures.  Death  has 
not  yet  got  you  with  him  in  the  dance ;  and  yet  you  already 
dance  with  me  ;  aye  altogether  I  The  great  dance  begins  from 
the  cradle.  Life  is  like  the  lamp,  which  begins  to  burn  out  as 
soon  as  it  is  lighted.  As  old  as  each  of  you  are,  so  many  years 
have  I  already  danced  with  you  ;  every  one  has  his  different 
turn,  and  the  one  holds  out  in  the  dance  longer  than  the  other  ; 
but  toward  the  morning  hour  the  lights  burn  out,  and  then  — 
tired,  fatigued  —  you  all  sink  down  in  my  arms,  and  —  that  is 
called  death !  " 

Round  about  in  the  walls  stood  epitaphs,  and  in  the  aisles 
lay  tombstones,  with  illegible  inscriptions  and  half-obliterated 
knights  and  dames.  I  saw  a  large  stone,  with  a  stalwart 
knight  carved  on  it :  he  held  his  long  battle-sword  in  his  hand, 
and  yet  permitted  the  new  generation  to  tread  on  his  nose,  so 
that  his  features  and  the  long  beard  were  almost  effaced.  He 
and  all  these  quiet  neighbors,  whose  names  have  now  disap- 
peared like  the  inscriptions,  once  rioted  merrily  in  the  old  city, 
promenaded  many  a  time  on  the  green  ramparts,  heard  the 
birds  sing,  and  thought  of  immortality.  The  old  senate-house 
still  stands,  with  its  small  towers,  and  the  great  Hanse-hall : 
the  market-place,  where  the  new  throng  of  people  busy  them- 
selves, lies  between  it  and  the  church. 

From  St.  Mary's  Church  I  went  out  into  God's  great  church, 
which  is  of  far  greater  magnitude  :  that  is  an  arch  !  it  preaches 
when  all  else  is  still.  The  houses  on  both  sides  of  the  street 
appeared  to  me  to  be  rows  of  pews,  like  bought  or  rented  fam- 
ily pews,  where  even  the  domestics  had  their  places.  A  thun- 
der-cloud, which  had  drawn  up  over  us,  began  its  sermon  in 
the  mean  time  ;  it  was  short,  yet  there  was  much  in  that  speech. 


8  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

I  left  the  old  city  of  Lubeck  in  the  evening ;  the  sun  went 
down  so  beautifully,  and  the  green  woods  sent  forth  such  fra- 
grance, that  it  gave  me  a  delight  not  to  be  expressed.  How 
much  poesy  is  there  not  in  such  a  still  evening !  The  high- 
road —  yes,  that  was  also  poetical  in  its  way  :  it  appeared  to 
me  to  be  the  way  to  Parnassus  —  rugged  and  uneven. 

We  all  arrived,  however,  early  in  the  morning,  with  whole 
limbs,  at  Wandsbeck.  Here  Claudius  lived  and  wrote.  I 
thought  of  Andreas  and  Anselmus  :  the  sun  shone  in  my  face, 
so  that  it  brought  the  water  into  my  eyes.  I  had  nearly  driven 
past  the  building  where  the  lottery  is  drawn,  without  noticing 
it,  but  there  are  thoughts  enough  here,  nevertheless,  which, 
like  unhappy  spirits,  hover  about  this  place,  and  howl  over 
the  unloosened  mammon.  Claudius  and  the  lottery  !  —  they 
are  two  remarkable  things  in  this  little  town,  though,  God 
knows,  they  by  no  means  resemble  each  other.  But  I  will  not 
speak  disrespectfully  of  the  lottery :  life  itself  is  a  grand  lot- 
tery which  has  again  many  subordinate  divisions,  and  some  of 
them  are  quite  poetical 

We  now  saw  the  towers  of  Hamburg  ;  they  rose  aloft  in  the 
air,  as  if  to  see  whether  we  were  not  coming  soon  \  and  the 
sun  shone  on  them  and  on  us  with  as  much  splendor  as  though 
its  purpose  had  been  to  give  lustre  to  an  imperial  pageant. 


CHAPTER  II. 

HAMBURG. — A  SIMPLE  STORY.  — THE  THEATRE.  — A  VISIT  OUT 
OF  TOWN.  —  THE  DREAM,  AN  IDYL. THE  TWO  CHARACTERS, 

I  FELT  a  sincere  and  deep  respect  for  the  old  city,  which 
the  narrow  streets  and  thronging  masses  of  people  helped 
to  sustain.  I  really  believe  our  coachman  drove  us  up  one 
street  and  down  another  in  order  to  show  us  the  imposing  great- 
ness of  the  town,  for  it  seemed  almost  an  eternity  before  we 
came  to  the  "  Hotel  de  Baviere,"  in  "  Neue  Jungfernstieg," 
where  we  descended.  Here  within  the  city  itself  it  looks  well, 
as  the  Alster,  which  is  broad  and  large,  separates,  as  it  were, 
the  old  town  from  the  new.  The  high  towers  are  reflected  in 
the  water,  where  the  swans  glide  along,  and  the  boats  rock  with 
their  loads  of  well  dressed  persons.  The  "  Jungfernstieg  "  is 
crowded  with  promenaders ;  and  along  here,  where  one  hotel 
lies  by  the  side  of  the  other,  the  doorways  are  thronged  with 
waiters,  upper-waiters,  upper-waiters'  upper-waiters. 

We  will,  however,  not  tarry  here,  but  reserve  our  visit  until 
the  evening,  when  all  is  lighted  up,  although  it  can  well  bear 
being  seen  by  daylight.  We  will  venture  into  the  crowd, 
amongst  hackney  coaches,  shouting  retailers  of  all  kinds,  flower 
girls  from  Vierlande,  and  busy  moneyed  men  from  'Change. 
It  looks  as  if  it  were  but  one  single  shop  —  so  thickly  do  they 
press  on  each  other.  The  streets  cross  one  another,  and 
down  toward  the  Elbe  we  find  some  to  which  the  entrance  is 
through  a  lobby,  and  where  scarcely  any  one  can  live  that  ex- 
ceeds a  certain  circumference,  unless  he  live  in  them  contin- 
ually. I  stuck  my  head  into  some  of  them,  but  durst  not  go 
further,  for  they  reminded  me  of  a  dream  I  once  had  :  how  the 
houses  in  Østergade  (East  Street),  Copenhagen,  where  I  was 
walking,  also  began  to  walk,  but  with  their  fronts  toward  each 
other,  so  that  the  streets  had  the  appearance  of  these  Ham- 


TO  RAMBLES  I.V   THE  IIARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

burg  streets  ;  and  as  they  made  another  step,  I  sat  squeezed 
in  between  the  walls,  and  could  neither  get  forward  nor  back- 
ward —  which  was  rather  unpleasant. 

Yet  a  swarm  of  children  played  about  in  them,  quite  pleased 
and  satisfied  in  that  half  obscure  Hamburger-world. 

A  poor  man  was  to  be  buried  :  four  men  bore  the  coffin, 
and  the  wife  followed ;  they  had  some  difficulty  in  passing 
through  the  narrow  lane  ;  the  way  was  strait ;  not  a  sunbeam 
found  its  way  down  here,  —  it  was  only  when  they  had  emerged 
into  the  broader  streets  that  the  sunlight  fell  on  the  humble 
coffin.  I  heard  a  story  about  this  funeral,  which  is  as  poet- 
ically touching  as  it  is  true. 

Within  this  narrow  street,  high  up  in  an  equally  narrow 
chamber,  lay  the  poor  corpse ;  the  wife  sat  and  wept  over  it ; 
she  knew  of  no  expedient  to  get  it  buried  —  she  had  no  means. 
The  window  stood  open,  when  a  canary-bird  flew  into  the 
room  and  settled  by  the  head  of  the  corpse,  where  it  began  to 
sing :  it  made  a  strange  impression  on  the  woman  ;  she  could 
weep  no  longer,  for  she  imagined  it  must  have  come  down 
to  her  from  the  Lord.  The  bird  was  tame  \  it  allowed  itself 
to  be  caught  directly ;  and  as  she  related  the  circumstance  to 
a  neighbor,  and  showed  her  the  bird,  the  woman  remembered 
that  she  had  shortly  before  read  an  advertisement  m  the  news- 
paper about  a  canary-bird  that  had  flown  away  from  its  home. 

It  was  the  same  bird,  and  the  woman,  on  restoring  it  to  its 
owners,  found  there  humane  hearts,  who  rendered  her  such  as- 
sistance as  enabled  her  to  bury  the  dead. 

The  city  is  cut  through  with  canals  ;  I  saw  some  here  in 
this  quarter  that  appeared  to  me  like  veritable  sewers.  High 
houses  on  both  sides,  but  no  street,  only  the  narrow  canal  as 
far  as  one  could  see  on  account  of  the  projecting  balconies. 
On  these  there  hung  and  lay  all  sorts  of  things,  whilst  far 
below  the  dirty  water  ran,  or  rather  crept.  One  of  these  bal- 
conies or  sheds  in  this  chaos  was  painted  green,  and  there 
sat  a  stout  dame  before  the  tea-table,  enjoying  the  beautiful 
scene. 

If  in  the  summer  we  would  avoid  the  throng  of  people  we 
meet  with  almost  everywhere  here  —  if  we  wish  to  separate 
ourselves  from  the  world  —  then  we  must  go  to  the  theatre  : 


THE   THEATRE.  II 

here  we  shall  not  be  incumbered ;  the  pale  hermits  sit  wide 
apart  from  each  other  in  the  large  boxes. 

The  house  is  large  and  elegant  —  four  tiers  of  boxes,  and 
pit ;  the  passage  behind  the  benches  is  so  broad  that  one  might 
very  well  dance  a  gallopade.  The  whole  of  the  interior  is 
painted  white,  gilded,  and  lighted  by  a  brilliant  chandelier. 

They  performed  "  Der  Freischutz : "  the  decorations  were 
excellent,  particularly  "  the  wolf's  glen."  It  was  a  deep  rocky 
gulf,  where  the  moon  shone  down,  and  the  red  will-o'-the-wisps 
hopped  about  in  their  magic  circle-dance.  The  flames  shot 
up  from  the  earth,  and  the  Wild  Huntsman  —  an  airy  transpar- 
ency, a  group  of  clouds  that  formed  themselves  into  these 
wild  forms  —  darted  over  the  scene. .  At  the  end  of  the  act 
the  living  Z^?w/<?/did  not  ascend  from  the  bottomless  pit,  but' 
a  frightful  gigantic  figure,  that  filled  the  whole  stage,  seized 
Max  and  Caspar  with  his  enormous  hand  as  they  lay  lifeless 
on  the  ground,  whilst  the  whole  stage  was  lighted  up  by  a 
strong  red  fire,  which  gave  it  a  grand  effect.  In  other  respects 
ZamicF s  co%\M\s\^  was  not  good  —  he  looked  like  a  red  hussar. 
A  Demoiselle  Gned  performed  the  part  of  Agathe.  She  sang 
prettily  and  correctly,  but  made  a  fool  of  herself  every  time 
they  applauded  her :  she  then  quite  forgot  her  part,  and  made 
a  deep  courtesy,  which,  of  course,  at  once  destroyed  the  illusion. 
After  this  grand  aria  with  her  handkerchief,  which  was  waved 
with  much  studied  grace,  and  as  she  was  about  to  throw  her- 
self into  the  arms  of  Max,  the  audience  applauded,  upon  which 
she  made  a  movement  forward,  courtesied,  and  then  threw  her- 
self into  the  arms  of  the  poor  lover,  who  had  a  whole  public 
between  him  and  his  beloved  one's  feelings. 

Art  is  the  opposite  of  nature  ;  but  art  is  not  therefore  un- 
natural ;  it  is  rather  the  ideal  image  of  nature :  one  must  for- 
get that  it  is  art ;  but  how  can  one  do  so  when  the  artist  de- 
grades him  or  herself  by  forgetting  the  natural  in  art  for  the 
sake  of  a  miserable  clapping  of  hands. 

The  next  time  I  was  in  the  theatre  I  was  entertained  with  a 
melodrama  from  the  French,  "  Cardillac  oder  das  Stadtviertel 
des  Arsenals  ;  "  it  is  constructed  after  Hoffman's  well-known 
tale,  "  Fraulein  Scudery ; "  but  it  was  a  miserable  play. 
Oliver's  part  was  performed  by  a  Mr.  Jacobi,  who,  they  say, 


12  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

has  his  boots  and  shoes  gratis  from  tlie  shoemakers'  corpora- 
tion in  Hamburg,  because  he  played  Hans  Sachs.  Why  he 
got  them  I  know  not ;  but  it  was,  perhaps^  with  the  respecta- 
ble shoemakers'  corporation  as  with  an  old  citizen  I  once 
knew,  who,  when  he  saw  his  daughter  play  at  a  private  the- 
atre, clasped  his  hands  and  said,  "The  Lord  only  knows  where 
she  got  all  she  is  now  saying ! "  They  also,  without  doubt, 
thought  that  Jacobi  himself  invented  all  the  fine  things  he 
said ;  and  as  they  were  all  shoemakers,  like  Hans  Sachs, 
and  as,  perhaps,  there  were  poets  among  them  (not  like  Hans 
Sachs,)  they  thought,  "  Heute  dir,  morgen  mir  ! "  (To-day  you, 
to-morrow  me.)  "  Who  knows  what  Jacobi  may  put  into  our 
months  if  we  should  happen  to  come  on  the  stage  ?  " 

From  the  theatre  we  will  go  to  the  Botanical  Garden,  though 
I  saw  the  former  in  the  evening  and  the  latter  in  the  morning ; 
but  the  large  hot-houses  appear  to  me  be  a  suitable  chain  of 
transition  to  the  free  contemplation  of  nature. 

The  site  is  charming  ;  we  imagine  ourselves  far  away  from 
Hamburg,  and  yet  there  is  only  the  old  ditch  surrounding  the 
ramparts,  and  the  level  walls,  with  their  flower  parterres  and 
trees  between.  The  strawberries  were  already  in  full  flower, 
and  the  little  birds  twittered  in  the  hedgeS;  saying  to  me,  "  Do 
)'0U  already  perceive  that  you  are  travelling  southward  ?  " 

From  the  Botanical  Garden  I  wandered  out  to  Altona,  where 
I  enjoyed  the  first  fine  prospect  over  the  Elbe,  and  thus  came 
to  Ottensen.  The  well  known  tree  in  the  church-yard  caught 
my  eye  directly :  I  stood  by  Klopstock's  grave. 

I  once  read  of  an  English  traveller  who,  when  he  witnessed 
a  Catholic  procession  for  the  first  time,  and  saw  the  whole  as- 
sembled multitude  kneel,  also  bent  his  knee  involuntarily, 
though  he  knew  not  if  it  were  a  god,  a  saint,  or  something 
merely  human,  that  he  knelt  to;  it  was  almost  the  same  with 
me  here.  I  know  but  little  of  Klopstock  ;  for  his  "  Messiah  " 
—  yes,  I  will  honestly  confess  it  —  I  have  never  read.  Such  a 
great  heroic  poem  has  something  in  it  of  a  deterring  nature 
to  me :  it  was,  in  fact,  more  Klopstock's  name  than  his  works 
that  awakened  my  deep,  serious  feelings  by  his  grave.  It  was 
that  immortal  name  which  caused  my  heart's  pulse  to  beat 
quicker. 


THE  DREAM,  AN  IDYL.  I3 

I  passed  on ;  Nature  beckoned  me  to  view  her  charms. 
Neat  and  beautiful  green  gardens  lay  along  the  shores  of  the 
Elbe  ;  the  steamers  glided  proudly  on  the  river,  and  the  black 
smoke  rolled  along  over  its  surface.  It  is  delightful  here :  yet 
thousands  have  said  so  before  me.  Who  has  not  been  in  Rain- 
ville's  garden  at  Blankenese,  seen  "  Das  schone  Marianchen," 
etc.  etc.  ?  yes,  all  who  have  no  idea  of  Saxon  Switzerland  say 
that  this  place  resembles  it  much.  The  Elbe  is,  at  least,  the 
same,  and  here  even  broader. 

The  birds  sang  and  the  flowers  nodded,  and  in  such  numbers 
that  when,  in  the  twilight,  I  got  back  to  Hamburg,  I  fancied 
that  on  the  whole  of  the  "  Jungfrauenstieg  "  there  were  noth- 
ing but  merry  birds  and  nodding  flowers  moving  there. 

I  dreamed  I  was  a  little  bird 

That  flew  o'er  the  land  and  the  main  ; 
What  the  heart  felt,  what  the  eye  saw, 

I  know  not  well  how  to  restrain. 

I  sang  each  thought  that  was  deep  in  my  breast, 

I  sang  of  my  pleasures,  and  then 
I  took  a  flight  over  the  foaming  sea, 

And  saw  foreign  cities  and  men. 

One  morn  I  sat  on  the  old  tree's  bough. 

And  warbled  my  gladsome  song  ; 
The  flowers  peeped  forth  from  the  emerald  sward 

They  were  many,  and  lovely,  and  young. 

But  one  in  its  scent  and  its  color  eclipsed 

The  rest  of  the  greensward  train  ; 
And  on  her  I  looked,  and  for  her  I  sang, 

And  forgot  foreign  lands  and  the  main. 

Here  I'll  build  my  nest  and  with  her  I'll  dwell, 

From  her  I  will  never  depart ; 
To  her  I'll  warble  the  choicest  songs 

That  gush  from  the  depths  of  my  heart. 

Modestly  to  the  wind  she  bent, 

And  I  touched  her  light  robe  of  blue  : 
Her  perfume  revealed  her  thought  to  me. 

And  the  sun  her  warm  blushes'  hue. 


14  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

Bashful  she  bowed  her  fair  head  down  — 

How  well  I  remember  the  hour  ! 
I  thought  I  read  requited  love 

In  the  glance  of  that  lovely  flower. 

There  came  a  sportsman  comely  and  young, 

His  gun  o'er  Iiis  shoulder  was  cast ; 
And  stooping,  he  stretched  forth  his  ruthless  hand  — 

And  my  flower  liis  bosom  graced. 

A  dew-drop  fell  from  the  flow'ret's  leaf, 

And  methought  it  was  a  tear  : 
O  !  that  his  gun  were  leveled  now. 

For  death  liave  I  ceased  to  fear. 

In  mem'ry  my  flower  is  sweet  as  ere 

Its  home  was  the  sportsman's  breast ; 
And  I  fly  over  country,  and  city,  and  town, 

Yet  my  heart  finds  nor  solace  nor  rest. 

Though  I  mourn,  yet  my  song  is  ringing  still 

Every  time  o'er  the  meadow  I  fly  : 
It  may  lure  the  sportsman,  for  what  is  life 

Or  song  when  we  wish  to  die  ? 

It  was  on  the  fourth  day  after  my  arrival  that  I  left  Ham- 
burg for  Brunswick  by  the  "  postkutsche."  There  were  about 
twent}'  passengers,  who  all  stood  in  a  group,  with  cloaks,  boxes, 
and  other  travelling  attributes,  by  the  "  Hohen  Briicke,"  where 
we  were  to  enter  the  conveyance. 

The  street  here  was  narrow  and  dark,  with  a  great  crowd, 
noise,  and  shouting  ;  yet  in  the  midst  of  all  its  prose  lay  a  lit- 
tle pastoral  scene. 

The  side  houses  had  many  outbuildings  and  bow  win- 
dows ;  between  two  of  these  was  a  little  wooden  shed  stuck 
up ;  it  was  so  low  that  no  one  could  stand  upright  in  it,  and 
so  small  that  there  was  only  space  for  one  chair,  and  no  more. 
Herein  sat  an  old  married  couple  —  a  shoemaker  and  his 
wife.  The  work-tools  lay  in  the  window,  and  the  husband 
took  up  the  whole  space  between  it  and  the  back  wall ;  the 
old  woman  sat  close  beside  him  with  her  knitting,  and  then 
came  the  door :  she  must,  of  course,  come  out  of  the  house 
first  to  make  way  for  him. 


THE    TWO   CHARACTERS.  I5 

They  really  sat  there  like  dolls  in  a  glass  case,  and  looked 
very  glad  and  happy,  chattering  and  laughing  as  they  looked 
at  us,  whilst  we  were  put,  one  at  a  time,  into  the  great  "  post- 
kutsche." 

I  got  a  place  in  one  of  the  branch-carriages,  where  I  had  an 
Englishman  and  two  Hamburgers  for  companions ;  one  of 
them  was  a  Jew. 

"  Now  we  shall  be  interesting !  "  was  the  first  thing  he 
said,  almost  before  he  had  taken  his  seat  in  the  carriage,  and 
looked  at  us  all  with  a  pleased  and  satisfied  mien. 

"  Our  Hamburg  is  a  fine  city,  a  rich  city  ! "  and  then  he 
began  to  sing  in  falsetto  : 

"  Stadt  Hamburg  in  der  Elbe-Auen, 
Wie  bist  du  statlich  anzuschauen  !  " 

I  was  also  quite  pleased,  for  I  thought,  like  the  devil  when 
things  go  wrong,  "  There,  I  shall  have  one  soul !  him  I  can 
certainly  make  use  of."  I  prayed  that  this  young  man's  orig- 
inality might  put  its  Sunday's  dress  on,  and  in  that  hope  I 

too  hummed : 

"  Heil  iiber  dir  Hammonia ! " 

Thus  we  rolled  out  of  the  old  city  of  Hamburg. 

I  mentioned  the  poet  Heine.  "  Heine  !  "  said  he  :  "  yes, 
Heine  is  a  great  man  in  poetry,  and  his  brother  a  great  man 
on  'Change.  But  I  don't  like  his  verses  —  they  are  so  short. 
You  get  a  rap  on  the  nose,  and  then  that  poem  is  done  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other  Hamburger,  "  he  is  always  so  ready 
to  give  one  a  rap  on  the  nose  !  Now,  he  has  written  that  the 
Romans  and  Italians  are  so  handsome,  and  their  features  so 
regular,  and  that  we  Germans  have  '  Kartoffel-Gesichter ' " 
(potato-faces).  "  Have  we  potato-faces  ?  "  asked  he,  as  he 
turned  his  visage  toward  me,  which,  if  I  must  speak  conscien- 
tiously, was  not  unlike  that  vegetable  product. 

"  I  would  not,"  he  continued,  "  for  anything  in  the  world, 
travel  with  such  a  man  ;  for  before  one  knew  a  word  about  it, 
there  might  be  a  whole  book  written  about  one  ! " 

"  Number  two  !  "  thought  I ;  "  here  I  have  the  second  soul ! 
What  characters  for  my  travels  !  They  will  develop  them- 
selves by  degrees,  and  make  effect  in  the  third  chapter." 


1 6  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

We  had  meanwhile  come  to  the  end  of  the  first  stage  ;  but 
there  they  both  took  leave  —  both  the  souls  ! 

It  is  really  annoying  for  an  author  to  lose  his  first  two  char- 
acters in  this  way,  without  having  as  yet  made  use  of  them  ; 
but  we  will  not  allow  ourselves  to  be  annoyed  :  we  will  travel 
farther. 


CHAPTER  III. 

VIERLANDE.  THE   TRAVELLER    AND    THE    DWELLER    ON     THE 

HEATH.  THE      SCHOOL- MISTRESS.  LYNEBORG.  THE 

ELVES    ON    THE    HEATH. 

WE  were  now  in  Vierlande.  Small  canals  crossed 
each  Other  ;  everything  was  luxuriantly  green  ;  the 
cherry-trees  had  changed  their  blossoms  for  fruit,  though  it 
was  only  the  twenty-first  of  May.  The  whole  appearance  was 
of  a  large  kitchen-garden ;  and  it  is  so  to  Hamburg  and  the 
whole  neighborhood. 

Neat  houses  stood  close  by  the  way-side,  and  some  of  them 
had  panes  of  stained  glass  in  the  windows.  Children,  boys 
and  girls,  ran  alongside  the  carriage  to  sell  us  flowers  ;  for  a 
trifle  we  got  both  nosegays  and  wreaths. 

A  journey  through  Vierlande  to  the  Hartz  is,  however,  a 
right  living  picture  of  human  life.  That  luxuriant  green 
nature  here,  where  the  inhabitants  sleep  quietly  within  the 
dikes,  without  dreaming  of  the  turbulent  stream  which  in  a 
moment  might  break  in  and  overwhelm  them,  appeared  to  me 
as  the  happy  green-life's  childhood- world,  where  also  grow 
cherries,  plums,  pease,  and  variegated  flowers  everywhere. 
But  we  have  scarcely  passed  out  of  this  happy  land,  over 
Reality's  Elbe-stream,  than  Life's  great  Lyneborg-heath  lies 
before  us,  which,  however,  is  not  so  bad  as  it  is  given  out  to 
be.  Here  also  are  woods  ;  and  though  they  are  but  of  fir 
and  pine,  yet  they  aflbrd  shade.  We  also  find  men  here  ;  and 
the  birds  warble  sweetly  in  the  green  meadows.  Behind  all 
that  extent  of  heath  rise  the  Hartz  Mountains,  where  even 
the  sunlit  clouds  lie  like  mists  far  below  us. 

At  Zollenspicker,  which  lies  on  an  island  between  the  Elbe 
and  Elmenau,  we  all  got  into  a  large  ferry-boat,  and  sailed 
over  the  river  Elbe,  which  ran  at  a  rapid  rate  toward  Ham- 

2 


I  8  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

burg,  just  as  if  it  had  a  thousand  pieces  of  news  from  the  Bo- 
hemian mountains,  which  it  must  have  inserted  in  the  "  Borsen- 
halle." 

We  now  landed,  and  stood  in  the  kingdom  of  Hanover. 
The  country,  as  far  as  Winsen,  a  Hanoverian  hamlet  situated 
by  a  small  river^  was  tolerably  pretty.  On  the  first  street- 
corner  here  a  painter  had  written  the  name  of  the  place  in 
large  white  letters,  "  Winsen,"  and  by  the  side  of  it  placed  an 
immense  comma,  as  if  to  signify  that  something  more  than  the 
mere  name  could  be  said  about  this  place. 

The  inhabitants  sat  on  the  steps  and  drank  their  tea :  we 
kissed  our  hands  to  the  ladies,  and  they  nodded  back,  as 
familiarly  as  if  we  were  well  acquainted.  The  sun  went  down 
behind  the  old  church-tower,  and  gave  us  all  red  cheeks,  as 
we  rolled  away  to  the  great  heath. 

It  was  not  uninteresting  on  the  side  from  which  we  ap- 
proached Lyneborg.  The  young  pine-trees  stood  with  their 
fresh  pale-green  shoots  —  the  whole  forest  looked  like  a  mass 
of  Christmas-trees  with  their  small  candles,  only  the  pres- 
ents were  wanting. 

We  rolled  onward  between  sand  and  pines. 

THE  TRAVELLER. 

Nor  mountain,  nor  sea, 

Heaven  gave  to  thee, 

But  the  ling-covered  land, 

The  pine-tree,  and  sand  : 
Only  these  can  I  see  around, 
Within  the  vast  horizon's  bound. 

THE   DWELLER  ON   THE   HEATH. 

Mountain  and  ocean  God  gave  to  me. 
The  sky  is  the  boundless  sea  ; 
What  sea  so  great  as  is  this  main  ? 
See,  it  overhangs  the  plain  ; 
Look  down  :  lo  !  deeply  in  the  lake. 
The  stars,  like  lilies  fresh,  awake  ! 

Mountains !     Are  there  no  mountains  here  ? 
Do  these  bright  clouds  in  vain  appear  ? 
They  lift  themselves  with  pride  and  power. 
Behold  !  one  seems  a  rocky  tower 
And  now  do^Ti  heaven's  sea  they  sail : 
Say,  wherein  do  these  mountains  fail  ? 


THE  SCHOOL-MISTRESS.  1 9 

From  twenty  passengers  who  left  Hamburg  together,  we 
had  dwindled  down  to  six,  and  now  sat,  heart  by  heart,  in  the 
great  "  postkutsche  :  "  we  formed,  in  a  manner,  the  six  of 
hearts,  as  there  were  three  on  each  side. 

The  one  heart  —  that  is  to  say,  with  bodily  case  and'  appur- 
tenances —  was  a  young  student  from  Hamburg,  full  of  humor 
and  ideas  :  he  found  that  we  just  formed  a  little  family  circle, 
and  that  we  ought  to  know  each  other  intimately.  Our  names 
were  not  asked,  but  our  country  j  every  one  got  a  name  after 
some  remarkable  man  or  woman  there,  and  thus  we  formed  a 
circle  of  celebrated  personages.  I,  as  a  Dane,  was  called 
Thorwaldsen  ;  my  neighbor,  a  young  Englishman.  Shakespeare, 
The  student  himself  could  not  be  less  than  Claudius  ;  but 
with  our  three  opposite  neighbors  he  was  somewhat  perplexed. 
One  was  a  young  girl,  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  who  accom- 
panied her  uncle,  an  old  apothecary,  from  Brunswick  :  he  was 
at  last  obliged  to  call  her  Miss  Mumme,  and  the  uncle  Henry 
Love.  But  the  last  of  the  passengers  was  quite  anonymous, 
as  we  could  not  find  any  famous  characters  in  that  otherwise 
famous  salt  town,  Lyneborg,  whence  she  came.  She  was, 
therefore,  a  step-child ;  and  it  ajDpeared  as  if  she  had  often 
been  treated  as  such,  for  she  smiled  with  a  strange  sadness, 
when  we  could  not  find  a  name  for  her  in  the  society.  This 
circumstance  caused  me  to  regard  her  more  particularly.  She 
was  about  fifty  years  of  age,  had  a  brown  skin,  and  some 
traces  of  the  small-pox  ;  but  there  was  something  interesting  in 
her  dark  eye  —  something  deeply  sad,  even  when  she  smiled. 
We  heard  that  she  kept  a  school  for  young  girls  in  Lyneborg, 
lived  quietly  there  in  a  small  house,  and  had  now,  for  the  first 
time,  but  only  for  a  few  days,  been  in  Hamburg.  I  scarcely 
heard  her  speak  a  word  the  whole  way  ;  but  she  smiled  kindly 
at  our  jests,  and  looked  good-naturedly  happy  at  the  young 
girl  every  time  she  laughed  heartily  at  what  was  said. 

In  the  midst  of  us  chatterers  she  was  the  most  interesting 
to  me,  on  account  of  her  silence.  As  we  rolled  into  Lyne- 
borg's  narrow  streets,  where  the  houses  stood  in  the  moonlight, 
very  old,  and,  with  pointed  gables,  so  cloister-like,  I  heard  her 
speak  for  the  first  time  :  — 

"  Now  I  am  at  home  !  "  said  she. 


20  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

We  alighted  ;  the  old  apothecary  offered  her  his  arm  to 
conduct  her  to  her  house,  —  it  was  close  by,  —  and  the  rest 
accompanied  her.  It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  :  everything 
was  still  in  this  strange  old  town  ;  its  houses,  with  pointed 
gables,  bow  windows,  and  outbuildings  round  about,  looked 
singular  in  the  bright  moonlight.  The  watchman  had  a  large 
rattle,  which  he  made  pretty  free  use  of —  sang  his  verse  — 
and  rattled  again.  "  Welcome  home.  Miss  !  "  said  he,  in  the 
midst  of  his  song  ;  she  nodded,  and  mentioned  his  name  as 
she  went  up  the  high  stone  steps  :  here  she  lived.  I  saw 
her  nod  her  farewell,  and  disappear  behind  the  door. 

When  the  postilion  afterward  blew  his  horn  for  us  to  enter 
the  diligence,  I  saw  a  light  in  her  chamber ;  a  shadow  passed 
over  the  curtain,  it  was  she,  who  was  looking  after  us  through 
the  window. 

That  journey  was  now  passed  with  her,  which  she,  perhaps, 
had  rejoiced  in  the  thought  of  for  several  years  before :  prob- 
ably it  stands  as  one  of  the  clearest  points  in  her  monoto- 
nous life,  and  has  since  enjoyed  it  many  times  in  recollection. 
There  is  something  really  touching  in  such  an  old  maid's  still 
cloister-life.  Who  knows  what  worm  gnaws  at  that  heart? 
• —  there  are  thoughts  and  feelings  we  often  cannot  confide  to 
our  dearest  friends.  On  the  morrow  she  would,  perhaps,  re- 
commence her  occupation  in  the  school,  and  hear  the  children 
m  les  verbes  régiiiiers, —  "Aimer,  aimant,  aime'."  How  many 
remembrances  lie  in  such  a  regular  verb  ! 

We  left  Lyneborg  without  having  seen  any  of  its  curi- 
osities —  without  even  a  glimpse  of  the  celebrated  swine 
that  discovered  the  salt-springs,  above  eight  hundred  years 
ago. 

We  however  saw  the  salt-works  and  the  lime-pits,  as  we 
left  the  town  ;  though  it  was,  sure  enough,  in  the  same  way 
as  Burger's  Leonore,  who  saw  towns  and  fields  fly  past  in  the 
moonlight. 

We  were  again  six  in  the  diligence  :  the  vacant  place  had 
been  taken  by  a  merchant  who  was  going  to  Dresden  ;  thus 
we  still  formed  a  six  of  hearts  as  we  again  found  ourselves  on 
the  heath. 

The  monotonous  grinding  of  the  wheels  in  the  sand,  the  pip- 


THE  ELVES  ON  THE  HEATH.  21 

ing  of  the  wind  through  the  branches  of  the  trees,  and  the  pos- 
tilion's music,  blended  together  into  a  sleep-bringing  lullaby: 
one  passenger  after  the  other  nodded  his  head.  Even  our  nose- 
gays, which  were  stuck  in  the  pockets  of  the  diligence,  imitated 
the  same  motion  every  time  the  vehicle  gave  a  jolt.  I  closed 
my  eyes  and  opened  them  again,  in  a  half  doze,  and  certainly 
dreamt.  My  eye  fell  in  particular  on  one  of  the  large  carna- 
tions in  the  bouquet  I  had  got  in  Vierlande  :  all  the  flowers  had 
a  powerful  scent,  but  I  thought  that  mine  surpassed  all  the  oth- 
ers, both  in  scent  and  color  ;  and,  what  was  most  curious,  in  the 
centre  of  the  flower  there  sat  a  little  airy  being,  not  bigger  than 
one  of  its  leaves,  and  as  transparent  as  glass  ;  it  was  its  genius, 
for  in  every  flower  there  dwells  such  a  little  spirit,  which  lives 
and  dies  with  it.  His  wings  were  of  the  same  color  as  the 
leaves  of  the  carnation,  but  they  were  so  fine  that  they  looked 
as  if  the  hue  were  but  the  red  tint  that  fell  from  the  flower  in 
the  moonlight :  golden  locks,  finer  than  the  seed-dust,  glided 
down  over  his  shoulders  and  waved  in  the  wind. 

As  I  looked  more  closely  at  the  other  flowers,  I  observed 
that  he  was  not  the  only  one  :  such  a  little  being  rocked  in 
every  flower  —  its  wings  and  airy  dress  were  as  a  tinge  of  the 
flower  in  which  it  lived.  They  each  rocked  on  the  light  leaf, 
in  fragrance  and  moonlight ;  each  sang  and  laughed ;  but  it 
was  as  when  the  wind  passes  gently  over  the  attuned  Æolian 
harp. 

There  soon  came  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  elves,  in  quite 
different  habits  and  forms,  through  the  open  window  of  the 
diligence  ;  they  came  from  the  dark  pine-trees  and  heath- 
blossoms.  What  a  chattering  there  was,  and  such  rocking 
and  dancing !  They  often  sprang  right  over  my  nose,  and 
were  not  ashamed  to  perform  a  circular  dance  on  my  brow. 
These  pine-elves  looked  like  real  wild  men,  with  lance  and 
spear,  and  yet  they  were  as  airy  as  the  fine  mist  which,  in  the 
morning  sun,  exhales  its  fragrance  from  the  bedewed  rose. 
They  arranged  themselves  in  different  parties,  and  played 
whole  comedies,  which  my  fellow-travellers  imagined  they 
dreamt :  every  one  had  his  piece. 

For  the  merry,  lively  student  from  Hamburg,  the  scene  was 
in   Berlin.     A  whole  flock  of  elves  disguised  themselv^es  as 


22  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

German  students  ;  and  some  were  true  Philistines,  with  long 
pipes  in  their  mouths,  and  sticks  like  clubs  by  their  sides : 
they  stood  in  long  rows  —  it  was  a  college.  One  of  the  pine- 
elves  mounted  the  rostrum,  and  spoke  so  learnedly  and  intri- 
cately that  I  could  not  possibly  follow  the  thread  of  his  dis- 
course. 

Another  part}'  played  on  our  Englishman's  lips,  danced, 
and  kissed  each  other  \  and  it  was  to  him  as  if  he  kissed 
his  heart's  beloved,  felt  her  cheek  lean  on  his,  and  looked  into 
her  wise,  affectionate  eyes. 

For  the  young  girl  from  Brunswick  they,  on  the  contrary, 
played  a  serious  scene  of  her  own  life  :  the  tears  trickled 
down  her  cheeks,  and  the  little  elves  smiled,  and  each  saw 
himself  reflected  in  a  tear  ;  so  that  every  tear  that  fell  in  her 
dreams  showed  an  innocent  smile. 

They  were  the  hardest  on  the  old  apothecar}',  because  he 
had  trodden  one  of  the  flowers  in  pieces  that  had  fallen  down 
in  the  diligence,  and  thereby  killed  one  of  the  little  elves. 
They  fixed  themselves  on  his  leg,  and  then,  in  his  dream,  it 
was  to  him  as  if  he  had  no  leg,  but  he  hopped  about  on 
the  stump  through  the  streets  of  Brunswick,  where  all  the 
neighbors  and  strangers  stood  and  looked  at  him.  This,  how- 
ever, grieved  the  little  beings  ;  so  they  let  him  have  his  leg 
again,  and  a  pair  of  great  wings  into  the  bargain,  so  that  he 
could  fly  high  above  Henry  Love's  copper  lion,  and  the  high 
church-tower  of  St.  Blasius ;  and  this  pleased  the  old  apothe- 
cary right  well,  for  he  laughed  aloud  in  his  sleep. 

For  the  merchant  from  Dresden  they  had  formed  the  whole 
exchange  at  Hamburg,  with  Jews  and  Christians  ;  and  set  the 
rate  of  exchange  so  high  that  it  had  never  yet  been  the  like 
nor  ever  will  be,  for  it  was  only  such  as  airy  sprites  can  bring 
about  in  dreams.  Me  they  seemed  not  to  take  any  notice 
of  until  long  afterward ;  when  one  of  them  said,  "  This  tall 
man  is  a  poet  \  shall  he  not  see  anything  t " 

"  He  sees  us  ;  does  he  not  ?  that  surely  is  enough  for  him  ! " 

"  Shall  we  not  also  let  him  see  what  we  see  ?  —  then  he  will 
sing  so  prettily  about  it  to  the  others  when  he  awakes." 

They  held  a  very  long  council  respecting  it  —  whether  I  was 
»I'orthy  to  be  received  into  their  society  or  not ;  but  as  they 


THE  ELVES  ON  THE  HEATH.  23 

had  at  the  time  no  better  poet  with  them,  I  got  a  card  of  ad- 
mission. The  little  elves  kissed  me  on  the  eyes  and  ears, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  suddenly  became  a  new  and  better 
man. 

I  looked  out  on  the  great  Lyneborg  heath,  which  is  said  to 
be  so  ugly.  Good  Heavens !  how  peoj^le  talk  !  —  yes,  they  talk 
as  they  see  and  hear.  Every  grain  of  sand  was  a  glittering 
rock :  the  long  grass-straw,  full  of  dust,  that  hung  out  on  the 
broad  high-road,  was  the  prettiest  macadamized  way  one  can 
imagine  for  the  little  elves  ;  such  a  little  smiling  face  peeped 
forth  from  every  leaf !  The  pines  looked  like  completed 
towers  of  Babel,  with  myriads  of  elves  from  the  lowest  broad 
branch  to  the  very  top.  The  whole  air  was  filled  with  the 
strangest  figures,  and  all  clear  and  quick  as  light.  Four  or 
five  flower-genii  rode  on  a  white  butterfly  they  had  driven 
out  of  its  sleep ;  whilst  others  built  palaces  of  the  strong 
fragrance  and  the  fine  moonbeams.  The  whole  of  that  great 
heath  was  an  enchanted  world,  full  of  miracles.  With  what 
art  was  not  every  flower's  leaf  woven  !  What  a  mass  of  life 
lay  in  the  green  pine-shoot !  Every  grain  of  sand  had  its 
different  color  and  peculiar  combination  ;  and  what  infinity  in 
the  expansive  firmament  above  ! 

The  legend  says,  that  the  mermaid  alone  can  receive  an 
immortal  soul  from  man's  true  love  and  Christian  baptism. 
The  little  flower-elves  do  not  demand  so  much  :  a  tear  from 
a  repentant  or  compassionate  human  heart  is  that  baptism 
which  gives  them  immortality,  and  therefore  the  elves  seek 
willingly  the  society  of  man  ;  and  when  the  pious  resigned 
sigh  ascends  from  our  breast,  they  rise  on  it  to  God  •  thus 
they  also  are  admitted  into  the  great  resplendent  heaven,  and 
grow  up  angels  under  the  powerful  sunlight  of  Eternity. 

The  dew  began  to  fall  :  I  saw  the  air-light  genii  sporting 
about  on  the  large  dew-drops.  Many  poets  say  that  the  elves 
bathe  themselves  in  dew ;  but  how  can  that  light  being  which 
dances  on  the  thistle-down  without  moving  it,  cleave  its  way 
through  the  solid  mass  of  water?  No;  they  stood  upon  the 
round  drop,  and  when  it  rolled  under  their  feet,  and  the  light 
drapery  fluttered  in  the  air,  they  looked  like  the  most  charm- 
ing miniature  pictures  of  Fortune  on  her  rolling  ball. 


24  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS 

Suddenly  I  felt  a  trembling  movement  in  the  air.  I  started 
up,  and  the  whole  had  vanished  ;  but  the  flowers  shed  a  strong 
perfume,  and  through  the  window  I  saw  some  fresh  green  birch 
branches  hanging  down.  The  postilion  had  decked  out  the 
whole  diligence  with  green  boughs,  because  it  was  Whitsunday. 
The  old  apothecary  stretched  himself  in  the  carriage  and 
said,  "  One  can,  after  all,  dream  here  !  "  but  neither  he  nor 
the  other  passengers  thought  that  I  was  cognizant  of  their 
dreams. 

The  sun  rose  ;  we  all  sat  quiet  —  I  believe  we  prayed  in 
silence,  whilst  the  birds  sang  hymns  for  Whitsuntide,  and  the 
heart  itself  preached  its  best  sermon. 

People  w'ere  going  to  church  in  Uelzen  when  we  got  there. 
The  sun  burnt  like  fire  ;  we  were  almost  half  dead  when  we 
reached  Gifhorn,  and  were  still  four  German  miles  from 
Brunswick.  I  felt  so  tired  that  I  scarcely  cared  to  look  out 
of  the  diligence,  even  when  we  could  see  the  Hartz  Mountains 
and  the  Brocken.  At  length  we  reached  our  journey's  end, 
and  I  found  rest  and  refreshment  in  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


(( , 


BRUNSWICK. "  THREE    DAYS    IN    THE    LIFE    OF    A  GAMESTER. 

A  CONTINUATION  OF  THE    SAME. THE  AIOTHER  AND  SON. 

WANDERING      IN    THE     TOWN DEPARTURE.  —  THE     OLD 

SCHOOL-MASTER. 

WHAT  do  they  perform  at  the  theatre  this  evening  ?  "  I 
asked.  "  O,  ein  wunderschones  Stiick  !  "  said  the  waiter. 
"  Drei  Tage  aus  dem  Leben  eines  Spielers." 

I  knew  that  it  was  a  piece  with  much  dramatic  efifect ;  it 
had  caused  a  great  sensation  throughout  Germany,  but  I 
thought  it  could  not  be  more  effective  than  "  Cardillac." 

The  piece  was  not  divided  into  acts,  but  into  days,  between 
each  of  which  there  was  a  period  of  fifteen  years.  1  bore  the 
infliction  of  two  days,  but  then  I  could  bear  it  no  longer  ; 
the  audience  were  kept  on  the  rack  of  suspense ;  but  only 
think  of  me,  poor  man,  almost  jolted  to  death  from  the  jour- 
ney ! 

The  first  day  ended  with  the  gamester  taking  the  life  of  his 
old  father  ;  the  second  day  he  shot  a  person  who  was  innocent. 
I  felt  my  blood  boil,  and  fully  expected  that  the  third  day 
would  be  devoted  to  the  murder  of  the  spectators  also. 

I  was  in  a  terrible  humor.  I  went  home,  but  I  saw  every- 
where outcasts  of  humanity,  broken-hearted  mothers,  and 
desperate  gamblers.  I  felt  such  a  disgust  for  cards,  that  I 
immediately  burnt  a  pack  of  innocent  visiting  cards,  merely 
because  they  bore  the  name  of  cards.  My  mind  was  in  a  state 
of  uproar.  I  tried  to  calm  it  by  singing  lullabies — nay,  I 
even  sat  down  at  last  to  tell  myself  a  child's  story,  which  you, 
dear  reader,  must  also  hear. 

"  While  the  Copenhageners  are  still  quite  little  urchins,  and 
have  not  been  farther  out  into  the  world  than  to  the  deer 


26  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

park  ^  and  Fredericksberg,^  and  their  grandmothers  or  nurses 
tell  them  about  enchanted  princes  and  princesses,  golden 
mountains  and  talking  birds,  —  then  the  little  head  dreams 
about  the  beautiful  visionary  land,  and  looks  over  the  sea  that 
joins  the  sky  between  the  Danish  and  the  Swedish  coast  It 
must  lie  out  there,  they  think,  and  paint  this  new  world  to 
themselves  in  such  brilliant  colors!  but  they  become  older, 
go  to  school,  and  get  hold  of  their  geography,  which  at  once 
breaks  up  the  whole  of  their  land  of  dreams,  though  it  is  in 
that  that  we  must  remain. 

"  Here  lived,  many,  many  years  ago,  —  long  before  any  one 
dreamt  of  my  authorship,  and  '  Drei  Tage  aus  dem  Leben 
eines  Spielers,'  —  an  old  silver-haired  king,  who  had  such 
confidence  in  the  world  that  he  could  not  imagine  that  any 
one  could  tell  a  lie  ;  nay,  a  lie  was  to  him  such  a  visionary 
picture,  that  he  promised  one  day  in  council  to  give  his 
daughter  and  half  the  kingdom  to  him  who  could  tell  him 
something  which  he  must  be  sensible  was  a  lie. 

"  All  his  subjects  began  to  study  the  art  of  lying,  but  the 
.  good  king  took  all  they  said  for  truth.     At  last  he  became 

1  "  Dyrehaven,"  The  Deer  Park,  about  six  English  miles  from  Copen- 
hagen, is,  during  the  months  of  June,  Jul)',  and  August,  a  favorite  resort 
of  the  inhabitants  of  Copenhagen,  of  all  ages  and  ranks,  from  the  king  to 
the  peasant,  the  grandfather  to  the  child.  It  is  a  pleasant  beech  wood 
park,  in  which  are  a  royal  hunting  lodge  and  several  springs  of  fine  water. 
A  pleasure  fair  is  held  there  during  six  weeks,  commencing  on  the 
twenty-first  of  June,  and  continuing  until  the  first  of  August,  every  year. 
It  is  situated  near  the  sea,  and  the  drive  to  it  is  delightful,  being  along 
the  beach,  and  commanding  a  fine  prospect  of  the  Swedish  coast,  and  the 
roadstead  of  Copenhagen,  with  the  shipping,  etc.  Along  the  road  are  a 
number  of  elegant  villas,  inhabited  chiefly  by  the  gentry  and  merchants  of 
the  capital.  Several  steamers  ply  daily  between  the  city  and  the  park 
during  the  summer  months,  when  vehicles  of  every  description  are  also 
in  requisition  ;  so  that  the  road  to  "  Dyrehaven "  presents,  on  a  fine 
Sunday,  a  sight  similar  to  the  Epsom  road  on  the  Derby  day,  though  on  a 
less  pretending  scale.  —  Translator. 

2  Fredericksberg  is  a  royal  palace,  at  present  inhabited  by  the  Dowager 
Queen  of  Denmark,  situated  on  a  lofty  hill,  about  an  English  mile  from 
Copenhagen,  and  affording  a  fine  prospect  over  the  city,  the  island  of 
Amack,  the  adjacent  country,  and  part  of  the  Baltic.  Here  are  some 
extensive  grounds,  laid  out  in  the  English  style  of  gardening  ;  it  is  much 
frequented. —  Trattslator. 


"THREE  DAYS. 


27 


quite  melancholy,  wept,  and  dried  his  eyes  on  his  royal  mantle, 
as  he  sighed, '  Shall  I  never  be  able  to  say.  It  is  a  lie  ? ' 

"  Thus  the  days  glided  on,  when  one  morning  there  came 
a  fine  well-grown  prince,  who  loved  the  princess  and  was  be- 
loved again  :  he  had  studied  lying  for  nine  years,  and  now 
hoped  to  win  her  and  the  kingdom.  He  told  the  king  that  he 
wished  to  have  a  situation  as  gardener,  and  the  king  said, 
*  Very  well,  my  son  ! '  and  led  him  into  the  garden. 

"  Here  the  cabbages,  in  particular,  were  of  a  fine  growth ; 
but  the  young  prince  turned  up  his  nose,  and  said,  '  Was 
ist  das  ?  ' 

"  '  They  are  cabbages,  my  son  ! '     said  the  king. 

"  '  Cabbages  !  in  my  mother's  kitchen-garden  they  are  so 
large  that  a  regiment  of  soldiers  can  stand  under  every  leaf.' 

"  '  It  is  very  possible,'  said  the  king.  '  Nature's  powers  are 
great,  and  there  is  an  immense  difference  in  the  growth  of 
plants.' 

"  '  Then  I  will  not  be  a  gardener,'  said  the  prince ;  '  let 
me  rather  be  your  land-steward.' 

" '  See,  here  is  my  barn  ;  have  you  ever  seen  a  larger  or 
finer  ? ' 

" '  Larger  ?  yes  !  If  you  could  but  see  my  mother's  !  Only 
think  :  when  they  built  it,  and  the  carpenter  sat  at  the  top  of 
the  roof  cutting  away  with  his  axe,  the  head  flew  out  of  the 
shaft,  and  before  it  reached  the  ground  a  swallow  had  built 
its  nest  in  the  hole,  laid  eggs,  and  hatched  young  ones.  That 
you  surely  must  believe  to  be  a  lie,  sir  king.'' ' 

"  '  No,  indeed  I  do  not !  human  art  goes  far ;  why  should 
your  mother  not  have  such  a  barn  ? ' 

"  Thus  it  went  on  and  on,  but  the  prince  got  neither  the 
kingdom  nor  the  beautiful  princess ;  so  they  both  pined  away 
with  grief  and  suspense,  for  the  king  had  sworn,  '  No  one 
shall  have  my  daughter  unless  he  can  tell  me  a  lie  ! ' 

"  His  good  heart  could  never  believe  in  such  a  thing ;  nay, 
even  when  he  died  —  which  he  did  at  last  —  and  was  placed 
in  the  large  marble  coffin,  he  got  no  peace ;  and  they  say  that 
he  still  wanders  about  the  earth  as  an  unblessed  spirit,  be- 
cause he  never  had  his  desire  appeased." 

I  had  got  thus  far  with  my  story  —  that  is,  to  the  end  — 


28  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

when  there  was  a  knocking  at  my  door.  I  cried  out,  "  Come 
in!"  and  imagine  my  surprise !  —  there  stood  the  old  king 
before  me,  with  his  crown  on  his  head,  and  his  sceptre  in  his 
hand. 

"  I  heard  you  relate  my  life's  histor}',"  said  he,  "  and  that 
has  brought  me  to  you.  Perhaps  you  know  a  lie  that  can  pro- 
cure me  peace  in  the  grave  ?  " 

I  endeavored  to  recover  myself,  told  him  how  it  was  that  I 
had  come  to  relate  to  myself  his  life  and  acts,  and  then  men- 
tioned "  Drei  Tage  aus  dem  Leben  eines  Spielers." 

"  Tell  it  to  me  !  "  said  he ;  "I  am  very  fond  of  the  terrible. 
I  am  myself  a  spirit,  as  you  see,  terrible  in  my  old  age  !  " 

I  began  to  relate  the  whole  to  him,  went  through  scene  by 
scene,  and  showed  him  that  picture  of  human  life  :  his  fea- 
tures cleared  up,  he  seized  my  hand,  and  said  with  enthusi- 
asm, "  It  is  a  lie,  my  son  !  it  is  not  so  in  the  world  :  but  now 
I  am  released  !  Thanks  be  to  you,  who  told  me  this  ;  thanks 
be  to  Louis  Angely,  who  brought  it  out  on  the  stage ;  but 
blessed  be  Victor  Ducange,  who  wa-ote  it.  Now  1  shall  have 
peace  in  the  grave !  "  —  and  then  he  vanished. 

When  I  awoke  next  morning,  the  whole  of  this  story  ap- 
peared to  me  as  a  dream. 

I  now  began  my  rambles  in  the  city,  which  appeared  to 
be  a  very  still  and  peaceful  one. 

Here  all  the  windows  inclined  inward,  and  the  flower-pots 
outward.  The  servant  girls  fluttered  through  the  streets  in 
variegated  calico  dresses,  and  the  children  cried,  "  Her'  Jos' !  " 
(Lord  Jesus)  to  every  other  word  they  said.  The  ramparts 
are  leveled  ;  one  walks  in  long  avenues,  and  finds  many  flower 
parterres,  which  one  may  look  at,  but  not  touch. 

I  went  to  the  "  Falleberthor,"  a  historical  place  in  the  fif- 
teenth century,  for  then  all  the  princes  and  powerful  lords  in 
the  land  assembled  there  every  seventh  year,  and  took  part 
with'  the  people  in  dancing  and  revelry.  At  that  period,  they 
threw  dice  there  for  everything,  even  to  get  a  wife ;  and  he 
who  threw  the  highest  was  obliged  to  marry.  Round  about  in 
parti-colored  tents,  sat  the  noble  dames  in  all  their  state,  and 
looked  at  the  merry  multitude  without.  Everything  was  now 
changed  ;    a  long    avenue,  with    country-houses,  villas,    etc., 


THE  MOTHER  AND  SON. 


29 


lay  before  me  on  both  sides.  Some  of  the  honest  burghers 
walked  about  here,  enjoying  the  morning  hour,  without  ever 
thinking  that  joerhaps  their  great-great-grandmother  had  been 
set  up  as  a  prize  to  be  thrown  for,  in  her  flourishing  youth,  as 
they  now  put  up  a  child's  cloak  or  a  workbox. 

It  was  Whit-Monday  :  the  bells  rang,  and  the  people 
streamed  to  the  cathedral  church  of  St.  Blasius ;  I  followed 
the  stream.  The  organ  pealed  through  the  lofty  arches,  the 
congregation  sang,  and  the  old  dukes  of  Brunswick  lay  in 
dust  and  ashes,  down  in  their  copper  and  marble  coffins.  This 
is  all  that  I  can  tell  about  my  first  visit  there  —  but  it  is  truth. 

After  church-service,  there  was  a  marriage.  They  were  a 
handsome  couple,  but  what  struck  me  particularly  was,  the 
singular  expression  of  joy  and  sorrow  depicted  in  the  bride's 
eyes :  she  appeared  to  be  looking  for  some  one  as  she  went 
up  to  the  altar. 

"  He  is  certainly  in  the  church,"  whispered  two  women  who 
stood  by  my  side. 

"  Poor  Edward !  yes,  that  he  certainly  is." 

A  light  broke  in  upon  me ;  but  I  was  certain  he  was  not 
there.  Had  it  been  a  novel  of  Johanne  Schoppenhauer's,  he 
would  assuredly  have  stayed,  deathly  pale,  behind  a  pillar,  and 
witnessed  the  marriage  ceremony :  here,  on  the  contrary,  it 
was  reality  ;  he  was  not  there,  but  where  1  — 

THE    MOTHER. 

Why  com  est  thou  from  the  church,  my  son  ? 

The  nuptial  mirth  is  not  begun. 

A  bride  to-day  will  Margaret  be. 

But  thou  art  pale  !  —  O  woe  is  me  ! 

And  yet,  what  cause  have  I  of  woe  ? 

Thou  look'st  to-day  exactly  so, 

As  when  —  O  God  !  now  I  must  weep  !  — 

A  child,  thou  in  the  grass  didst  sleep  ; 

Thy  foot  a  venomous  snake  had  bit, 

And  in  thy  face  death  seemed  to  sit : 

I  doubly  suffered  then  with  thee ; 

But  the  good  God  was  kind  to  me. 

Thy  foot  I  placed  deep  in  the  ground, 

Which  sucked  the  poison  from  the  wound. 


30  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 


Yes,  mother,  earth  can  ease  afford 
To  poisoned  wounds ;  then  pity.  Lord  I 
The  venom  now  is  in  my  heart, 
Let  earth  reheve  the  poisoned  part. 
O,  bury  deep  this  tortured  breast  — 
Earth,  earth  alone  can  give  me  rest ! 

"  Es  ist  eine  alte  Geschichte,  doch  bleibt  sie  immer  neu,"  * 
says  Heine. 

On  coming  out  of  the  old  church,  I  looked  at  the  knightly 
epitaphs  in  the  walls  and  the  ancient  buildings  that  lay  round 
about  in  the  streets.  The  old  senate-house  was  transformed 
into  a  wine-cellar,  though  it  still  stood  in  all  its  Gothic  rever- 
ence, with  the  large  stone  balcony ;  and  between  every  pillar 
was  a  princely  knight,  with  his  consort,  carved  in  stone,  of 
life  size. 

In  a  remote  corner  of  the  city,  near  one  of  the  gates,  there 
is  a  large  and  beautiful  garden  belonging  to  a  merchant.  It 
is  open  to  the  public ;  and  on  the  facade  of  the  house  stands, 
"  Salve  Hospes  !  "  Here  was  a  forest  of  exotic  flowers  and 
fruit-trees,  which,  planted  in  large  tubs,  stood  round  about  the 
house.  All  was  flower  and  fragrance.  From  a  place  in  the 
garden,  which  led  to  an  arm  of  the  river  Ocker,  we  had  one 
of  the  sweetest  landscapes  imaginable.  It  was  a  bleaching 
ground  —  a  large  meadow,  full  of  yellow  flowers.  At  some 
distance  lay  several  villas,  between  the  beeches  and  tall  pop- 
lars ;  and,  in  the  distant  horizon,  the  Hartz  with  the  Brocken, 
which,  like  a  gray  storm-cloud,  rose  up  between  the  other  sun- 
lit mountains  :  it  was  a  finished  picture  !  In  the  mountains 
themselves  we  have  background  without  foreground  ;  and  in 
the  plains  it  is  the  contrary  —  foreground  enough,  but  no 
background ;  here  were  both,  and  as  finely  distributed  as  one 
could  wish.  I  saw  a  young  painter  sketching  the  clouds 
and  airy  part  of  the  picture.  People  walked  past  without 
noticing  him.  And  so  near  the  city  !  He  should  have  been 
at  Copenhagen.  I  remember  one  of  our  most  famous  land- 
scape-painters once  told  me  that  he  one  evening  took  a  walk 

1  It  is  an  old  story,  yet  it  will  be  always  new. 


DEPARTURE.  31 

along  the  banks  of  the  Pebling  Lake/  in  order  to  study  the 
appearance  of  the  sky.  Delighted  with  its  beautiful  reflection 
on  the  surface  of  the  water,  he  stood  and  looked  into  it  j  when 
a  crowd  soon  collected  about  him,  and  all  asked,  "  Is  any 
one  drowned  ?  " 

I  walked  past  Heinrich  Love's  old  castle,  by  moonlight : 
the  large  copper  lion  stood  quietly  on  its  pedestal,  and  looked 
into  the  castle  on  the  new  generation  which,  in  soldiers'  uni- 
forms, peeped  out  of  all  the  windows. 

On  the  third  day  after  my  arrival,  I  left  Brunswick,  by  the 
"  Schnellpost,"  and  fell  into  company  with  two  young  lieuten- 
ants, who  travelled  incognito,  as  majors  ;  they  directly  made 
me  a  professor,  and,  as  it  costs  nothing  by  way  of  tax  for  the 
title,"-^  I  submitted  to  it  with  Christian  patience.  We  had,  be- 
sides, a  servant-maid  of  about  forty  years  of  age,  who  was  to 
meet  the  family  at  Goslar  ;  and  an  old  original  school-master, 
with  whom  we  must  try  to  be  better  acquainted.  The  woman 
was  of  a  character  between  the  melancholy  and  the  sanguine  ; 
she  vv^as  in  tears  every  moment,  because  just  on  that  day  the 
great  annual  target-shooting  was  to  take  place  in  Brunswick, 
which  she  had  so  great  a  desire  to  be  present  at ;  but  now  it 
was  the  third  year  she  had  been  obliged  to  travel  on  this  same 
day. 

I  parted  company  with  all  my  fellow-travellers,  except  the 
school-master,  at  the  first  station  :  we  were  now  placed  in  a 
small  carnage,  where  there  was  only  room  for  four  persons ; 
the  hearts  thus  came  corporeally  nearer,  and  I  had  now  but 
one  figure  to  occupy  myself  with.  He  was  a  man  of  about 
sixty  years  of  age ;  a  little  slender  being,  with  lively  eyes,  and 
a  black  velvet  skull-cap  on  his  head.  He  was  the  express 
image  of  Jean  Paul's  schulmeisterlein,  Wuz,  from  Auenthal. 
My  school-master  was  from  a  little  Hanoverian  town  ;  and  was 
going  to  visit  an  old  friend  in  Goslar,  with  whom  he  would, 
like  myself,  ascend  the  mountains  for  the  first  time.  He  was 
one  of  those  happy  beings  whose  contentment  allies  itself  with 

1  One  of  the  three  lakes  that  supply  Copenhagen  with  water. — Trans- 
lator. 

2  In  Germany  and  Denmark  every  person  having  a  title  pays  a  tax,  ac- 
cording to  rank,  from  the  page  to  the  prince.  —  Translator. 


32 


RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 


fancy,  and  twines  flowers  around  every  stump  ;  for  whom  the 
narrow  room  extends  itself  to  a  fairy  palace,  and  which  can 
suck  honey  from  the  least  promising  flower.  With  almost 
childish  pride  he  told  me  about  his  little  town,  which  to  him 
was  the  world's  centre  ;  it  had  also  increased  in  cultivation 
in  latter  times,  and  had  a  private  theatre. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  you  shall  see  it !  There  is  no  one  would 
ever  think  of  its  having  been  a  stable  before  !  The  stalls  are 
painted  with  violins  and  flutes,  by  our  old  painter  ;  and  the 
music  itself — yes,  i'  faith,  it  is  really  good,  for  such  a  small 
town  !  —  two  violins,  a  clarionet,  and  a  great  drum  ;  they  play 
very  nicely !  I  know  not  really  how  it  can  be,  but  music 
goes  strangely  into  the  heart,  and  I  can  well  imagine  how  it 
must  be  with  the  little  angels  in  heaven.  But  with  us,  now, 
we  don't  pretend  to  those  hocus-pocuses  and  tra-la-las  which 
they  have  in  Brunswick  and  Berlin.  No,  our  old  sexton,  who 
is  the  leader,  gives  us  a  good  honest  Polish  tune,  and  a  Molin- 
asky  between  the  acts  ;  our  women  hum  it  with  him,  and  we 
old  fellows  beat  time  on  the  floor  with  our  sticks  ;  it  is  a  real 
pleasure  !  " 

"  And  how  of  the  acting  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Charming  !  for,  you  must  know,  in  order  that  those  who 
perform  may  have  courage  to  appear  before  us,  they  are  grad- 
ually accustomed  to  it  at  the  rehearsals ;  and  at  the  general 
rehearsal  every  house  must  send  two  servants,  that  the  benches 
may  be  filled,  and  that  they  who  perform  may  have  courage." 
"  It  must  indeed  be  a  great  pleasure  "  — 
"  A  pleasure  !  "  interrupted  he  ;  "  3fes,  in  our  hearts'  simplic- 
ity we  all  amuse  ourselves,  and  don't  envy  them  in  Berlin. 
But  we  have  also  splendid  scenery,  machinery,  drop-curtains, 
and  performances.  On  the  first  drop-scene  we  have  the  town 
fire-engine,  and  the  jet  stands  just  as  in  nature.  But  they  are 
altogether  painted  —  beautifully  painted.  The  drop-scene  rep- 
resenting the  street  is  the  finest :  there  we  have  our  own  town- 
market,  and  it  is  so  distinct,  that  every  one  can  see  his  own 
house,  play  whatever  piece  they  may.  The  worst  thing  we 
have  is  the  little  iron  chandelier  :  the  candles  drip  so  terribly, 
that  if  there  be  ever  so  many  persons  present  there  is  always 
a  large   space  under  the  chandelier.     Another  fault  —  for  I 


THE  OLD  SCHOOL-MASTER. 


33 


am  not  the  man  to  praise  everything,  —  another  fault  is,  that 
many  of  our  women  when  they  act,  and  happen  to  know  any 
one  on  the  seats,  directly  giggle  and  nod  to  them.  But,  good- 
ness gracious,  the  whole  is  only  pleasure  !  " 

"  But  when  there  are  no  performances  in  the  winter,  it  must 
be  very  quiet  in  your  little  town  ;  the  long  evenings  "  — 

"  O,  they  go  on  quite  delightfully.  My  wife,  both  the  chil- 
dren, and  the  servant  girl,  sit  down  to  spin ;  and  when  all  the 
four  wheels  are  going,  I  read  aloud  to  tbem ;  so  the  work 
goes  on  easier,  and  the  time  flies  away.  On  Christmas  Eve 
we  play  for  gingerbread-nuts  and  apple-fritters,  whilst  the  poor 
children  sing  outside  the  doors  about  Christmas  joys  and  the 
Infant  Jesus  —  and  that  brings  the  tears  in  my  eyes,  although 
I  am  so  inwardly  glad." 

Thus  the  current  of  conversation  ran  rapidly  on,  whilst  the 
vehicle  moved  slowly  forward  in  the  sandy  road.  The  moun- 
tains came  gradually  forward  from  behind  their  misty  veils, 
like  strong  proud  masses,  overgrown  with  dark  fir-woods  ;  the 
corn-fields  wound  picturesquely  in  between  them',  and  Goslar, 
the  old,  free,  imperial  city,  lay  before  us.  All  the  roofs  of 
the  houses  were  covered  with  slates,  in  consequence  of  which 
the  town,  which  lies  inclosed  between  the  mountains,  has  a 
strange,  dark  appearance.  Here  had  once  been  the  seat  of 
the  German  kings  and  emperors  ;  here  the  diets  had  been 
held,  and  the  fate  of  the  country  and  the  kingdom  decided. 
Now  —  yes,  now,  it  is  famous  for  its  mines,  and  made  more 
so  by  Heine's  "  Sketches  of  Travel."  Here  I  parted  company 
with  my  Hanoverian  school -master,  in  the  hope  that  we  should 
again  meet  on  Bloxbjerg. 


CHAPTER  V. 

GOSLAR.  —  THE  MINES.  — THE  SPIDER.  —  BEAUTIFUL  MATILDA, 
A    LEGEND. ILSE.  THE    BROCKEN. 

THE  air  felt  so  singularly  oppressive,  I  could  actually 
smell  the  fumes  of  the  mine,  which  has  something  in 
common  with  that  which  they  tell  us  the  devil  perfumes  with, 
when  he  goes  angry  away  from  a  place.  But  as  I  have  named 
the  old  gentleman^  I  must  directly  make  known,  before  I  for- 
get it,  that  one  of  the  most  remarkable  things  in  Goslar  was  a 
present  from  this  far-famed  personage.  There  stands  in  the 
centre  of  the  market-place  a  large  metal  basin,  constantly 
filled  with  water,  through  pipes,  which  the  inhabitants  use 
instead  of  the  alarm-bell  when  there  is  a  fire,  as  they  beat  on 
it  so  that  it  can  be  heard  over  the  whole  town.  This  basin, 
the  legend  says,  was  brought  thither  one  night  by  the  above 
named  gentleman ;  I  examined  it,  and  found  that  it  was  very 
warrantable  work. 

The  town-hall  stands  close  by  here,  dark  and  antiquated, 
with  all  its  mighty  emperors  disposed  outside  \  they  stand  on 
the  first  floor,  with  crowns  on  their  heads,  sceptre  in  hand, 
and  all  strongly  illuminated,  like  a  Nuremberg  image.  I 
saw  an  old  miner  pointing  out  these  doughty  heroes  to  his 
little  granddaughter,  who  would  ever  after  imagine  all  the 
kings  and  emperors  of  the  earth  to  be  such  serious  looking 
stone  men,  with  sword  and  crown.  That  little  intelligent 
being  could  already  see  that  it  is  not  a  life  of  flowers  to  be  a 
king,  and  stand  with  the  heavy  crown,  day  and  night,  outside 
the  town-hall,  to  watch  over  law  and  justice. 

As  I  walked  through  the  streets  I  saw  several  houses  on 
which  stood  the  Madonna  and  Child ;  but  in  many  places  they 
were  whitened  over,  like  the  walls.  There  appeared  some- 
thing sad  in  thus  seeing  these  half-ruined  stone  images,  which 


THE  MINES. 


35 


>tood  here  like  mummies  of  a  past  age ;  they,  also,  once  lived 
and  ruled,  though  now  obscured  in  this  dead  stone.  It 
seemed  to  me  as  though  they  whispered  :  "  It  is  not  now  as 
before,  when  the  emperor  and  the  people  bent  the  knee  be- 
fore us  !  neither  is  Goslar  as  it  was  before  :  the  crown  has 
fallen  from  mine  and  the  emperor's  head  !  " 

"  These  dead  masses  have  a  greater  durability,"  thought  I, 
as  the  town  lay  behind  me,  and  I  stood  for  the  first  time  by 
a  mountain.  It  was  Rammelsberg,  known  for  its  mine,  in 
which  there  is  said  to  be  more  building  timber  than  in  all  the 
houses  in  Goslar.  The  whole  of  the  side  facing  the  town 
consisted,  for  the  most  part,  of  schistous  stone,  which  gave  to 
the  mountain  the  appearance  of  an  immense  building  that  had 
been  burnt  and  fallen  in  ruins.  The  air  itself  had  in  it  some- 
thing sulphureous,  and  the  water  that  came  out  of  the  moun- 
tain, through  a  drain,  looked  quite  of  an  ochreous  yellow. 

The  Norwegian  peasant  calls  the  thick,  blue-white  mist, 
which  so  often  remains  stationary  between  the  sides  of  the 
mountains,  "rø/^t'^'/^r,- "  '  and  I  know  no  name  that  is  more 
characteristic  :  it  actually  looked  as  if  an  immense  mass  of 
the  finest  carded  wool  had  been  blown  into  the  deep  ravine, 
and  hung  there  above  the  dark  pines. 

Where  we  descend  the  mine  there  was  a  number  of  young 
men  rolling  the  rough  masses  of  ore  into  a  recess  dug  out 
for  the  purpose.  We  got  a  guide  ;  he  lighted  his  lamp,  then 
opened  a  large  door,  and — I  felt  quite  strange  about  the 
heart  —  we  entered.  The  passage  was  of  brickwork  for  a 
short  distance,  but  the  angular  pieces  of  rock  soon  showed 
themselves  in  the  arches  round  about :  we  descended  deeper 
and  deeper.  Miners,  with  their  lamps,  met  us ;  "  Gliick 
auf!"^  was  the  mutual  greeting,  whilst  all  round  about  was 
still  as  in  the  grave.  The  passages  here  seemed  to  be  of 
bronze ;  the  ore  shone  forth  in  the  stones,  sometimes  green, 
sometimes  copper-colored. 

A   merchant  from  Goslar  acccompanied  me.     We  had  only 

a  narrow  plank  to  walk  on,  and  were  often  obliged  to  stoop 

quite  low,  on  account  of  the  pieces  of  rock  which  hung  down. 

One  passage  crossed  the  other,  and  the  guide  often  seemed  to 

^  Carded  wool.  ^  A  pleasant  voyage. 


36     KAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

be  far  away  from  us.  All  at  once  there  was  a  roaring  sound 
over  our  heads  ;  it  was  as  if  the  whole  mountain  was  falling 
in.  I  said  not  a  word,  but  held  fast  by  my  companion,  who 
told  me  that  it  was  a  sluice  they  had  opened  above,  and  which 
set  a  wheel  in  motion,  whereby  the  pieces  of  ore  were  hoisted 
up  from  the  nethermost  mine.  An  abyss  opened  to  our  view 
at  one  side  of  us.  We  could  not,  by  the  light  of  the  lamp, 
distinctly  perceive  the  whole  of  the  large  wheel  which  the 
water  rushed  over.  I  know  not  rightly  if  this,  or  the  large 
grottoes  where  the  ore  is  worked  loose  by  means  of  fire,  was 
the  more  picturesque.  The  red  flames  shot  up  high  in  the 
air,  and,  as  it  were,  illuminated  the  dark  miners  round  about. 
I  leaned  against  the  rocky  wall,  and  began  to  accustom  my- 
self to  this  strange  world,  which  had  a  beauty  in  it,  though  it 
was  terrible. 

It  is  a  strange  contrast,  that  which  exists  between  the  mar- 
iner's varied,  and  the  miner's  monotonous  life.  With  swelling 
sails  the  seaman  flies  over  the  glorious  sea,  from  coast  to  coast ; 
the  foreign  harbors  swarm  with  life  and  bustle.  Sometimes 
it  blows  a  storm,  so  that  the  mast  falls,  and  the  ship  is  tossed 
about  like  a  plaything  by  the  fierce  billows  ;  then  it  is  again 
a  dead  calm  —  he  sits  up  aloft  in  the  main-top,  and  looks  over 
the  boundless  space  between  sea  and  sky. 

To  the  miner,  on  the  contrar}^  one  day  glides  on  like  the 
other.  Here  he  sits,  with  his  lamp,  far  down  in  the  black  pit, 
and  hammers  the  ore  out  of  the  rock :  in  semi-darkness  he 
sits,  body  and  mind.  Sunday  alone  brings  some  change  :  he 
then  puts  on  a  better  dress,  goes  to  church,  and  sees  the  sun 
shine  mildly  into  it,  and  feels  it  in  his  heart.  Perhaps,  also, 
he  goes  in  the  afternoon  to  Goslar,  hears  the  newspapers  read 
there,  and  thinks  how  strangely  people  struggle  and  strive  in 
the  world ;  he  will,  perhaps,  also,  if  he  be  still  young,  unbend 
himself,  and  play  and  be  merry  with  the  rest ;  but  on  Mon- 
day he  is  again  to  be  found  sitting  far  down  in  the  pit,  and 
plying  the  hammer  —  and  thus  it  goes  on,  until  a  strange 
hand  strikes  the  last  blow  with  the  hammer  on  his  cofiin. 

When  we  again  ascended  from  the  mine,  the  sun  shone 
beautifully  over  the  young  pine-trees,  where  the  rain-drops  lay 
like  pearls  on  the  light  green  shoots.     It  seemed  to  me  that 


THE  SPIDER. 


Z7 


I  had  never  seen  anything  more  charming  than  these  sunlit 
mountain  sides  and  the  clear  sky  —  so  great  was  the  transition 
from  the  dark  mine  to  the  fair  summer  scene. 

A  narrow  footpath  led  us  round  Goslar ;  high  grass  grew  in 
the  moat,  and  the  thick  city  walls  were  almost  hidden  behind 
bushes  and  underwood.  We  then  ascended  "  Der  Zwinger,"  a 
large  round  tower  dating  from  the  emperors'  time  ;  the  walls  are 
twenty-two  feet  thick.  In  later  times  they  had  blown  up  the 
walls  of  the  first  story,  and  arranged  habitable  rooms  in  the 
wall  itself  At  the  very  top  there  was  a  large  saloon,  where 
the  citizens  of  Goslar  used  to  hold  balls  and  festivities.  A 
large  spider  had  spun  its  web  close  by  the  door,  and  looked 
at  me  and  a  noisy  fly  that  buzzed  about  my  nose  as  I  came  in. 
I  cannot  say  that  this  hexagon  weaver  was  any  beautiful  ob- 
ject on  the  wall,  yet  if  one  view  it  poetically,  it  may  serve  for 
a  picture  to  hang  up  in  one's  gallery  of  travels. 

THE  SPIDER. 

Canst  thou  remember,  pretty  fly  ? 

Here  were  candles  set  in  sconces  ; 

Minuets,  and  English  dances. 
Were  danced  in  this  room  so  high. 

Great  and  small,  and  weak  and  strong, 

All  whirled  here,  a  merry  crew ; 

"Whilst  thou  in  eddying  circles  flew, 
And  wert  prettiest  of  the  throng. 

Under  the  beam  there,  I  sat  still, 
My  heart  within  me  glowed  the  while  ; 
But  now  the  dance,  the  jest,  the  smile, 

Are  o'er,  and  hushed  the  music's  thrill. 

The  dance  !  it  is  thy  greatest  pleasure  ! 

I,  a  dancing-room  have  wrought. 

See,  'tis  light  as  fancy's  thought ! 
Wilt  thou  with  me  tread  a  measure  ? 

Joy  and  festive  mirth  shall  be 

Once  more  in  this  famous  tower  ; 

Come,  lively  fly,  come  to  my  bower, 
Thy  partner,  I  will  dance  with  thee  ! 

The  principal  church  in  Goslar  is  a  ruin  ;  there  is  only  a 


38  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

chapel  standing  now,  and  in  it  vestiges  of  the  church's  former 
glories.  An  old  woman  conducted  us  over  the  chapel,  and 
gave  us  an  explanation  of  these  treasures.  Close  to  the  door, 
inside,  was  a  painting  of  St.  Christopher,  of  a  colossal  size, 
where  he  stood  in  the  water  with  the  infant  Jesus  on  his  shoul- 
ders. "  They  were  what  one  may  call  men  at  that  time,"  said 
the  old  woman,  who  really  believed  that  "  der  grosser  Chris- 
toph  "  had  actually  been  as  tall  and  stout  as  he  appeared  here. 

A  female  figure,  formed  of  sandstone,  lay  in  an  open  coffin ; 
it  is  said  to  be  that  of  the  beautiful  Matilda,  a  daughter  of  the 
Emperor  Henry  III.  She  was  so  handsome  that  her  own 
father  fell  in  love  with  her ;  therefore  she  prayed  to  God  that 
he  would  at  once  make  her  very  ugly.  The  devil  then  appeared 
to  her,  and  promised  that  he  would  change  her  father's  love  to 
hate,  if  she  would  be  his  forever.  She  agreed  to  the  contract, 
on  condition  that  if  he  did  not  find  her  sleeping  the  first  three 
times  he  came  to  her,  she  should  then  be  free  from  him. 

In  order  to  keep  herself  awake,  she  took  her  needle  and  silk, 
and  embroidered  a  costly  robe,  whilst  her  little  dog  Qvedl  sat 
by  her  side.  Every  time  she  fell  asleep,  and  the  devil  ap- 
proached, the  faithful  dog  barked,  and  she  was  again  awake 
and  actively  at  work.  As  the  devil  now  saw  himself  duped, 
and  obliged  to  fulfill  his  promise,  he  passed  his  ugly  claw  over 
her  face,  so  that  her  beautiful  arched  brow  was  pressed  down, 
and  the  royal  nose  made  broad  and  flat :  her  little  mouth  he 
extended  till  it  reached  her  ears,  and  he  breathed  on  her  beau- 
tiful eyes,  so  that  they  appeared  like  lead  and  mist.  The 
Emperor  was  now  disgusted  with  her  ;  and  she  then  built  an 
abbey,  which,  after  her  faithful  dog  Qvedl,  she  called  Qvedl- 
ingburg,  where  she  herself  was  the  first  abbess. 

The  old  woman  who  showed  us  this  stone  image  knew  not 
rightly  if  it  were  intended  to  represent  her  in  her  days  of 
beaut}',  or  in  the  following  time,  when  the  devil  had  laid  his 
fingers  on  her :  I  was  most  inclined  to  the  latter  opinion. 

The  Emperor  Henry  III.'s  pew  has  also  a  place  here  ;  his 
effigy,  and  those  of  the  other  two  emperors,  in  the  stained- 
glass  v/indows,  looked  so  fresh  and  life-like  as  the  light  played 
through  the  many  colored  paintings,  that  I  was  induced  to  sit 
down  in  the  pew  and  regard  them  attentively. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  MATILDA. 


39 


There  Was  an  ancient  inscription  in  the  wall,  which  none  of 
us  could  rightly  decipher.  "  Yes,"  said  my  companion,  "  if 
my  brother,  the  doctor,  were  only  here,  he  would  explain  all 
that  stands  there  to  us  !  He  is  a  learned  man  ;  yes,"  said  she 
to  me,  "  he  is  just  as  learned  as  you  are  1 " 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  thought  I,  but  I  did  not  say  it. 

In  the  evening  I  again  went  the  same  tour  round  the  town, 
but  I  was  not  alone.  It  was  moonlight ;  the  streets  were  still, 
and  the  houses  cast  strong  shadows.  The  water  plashed  mo- 
notonously in  the  large  copper  basin,  and  the  old  emperors 
stood  seriously,  with  their  hands  on  their  swords,  and  looked 
forth  into  the  moonlight.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  stood  in 
one  of  the  enchanted  cities,  which  when  a  child  I  had  read  of  in 
many  a  fairy  tale  :  the  mountain  mists  that  lay  around  the  town 
appeared  like  a  magic  circle  that  encompassed  it,  and  when 
the  mists  were  dissipated,  methought  everything  would  again 
awake  to  its  former  life.  There  would  then  be  mirth  and  noise 
again  in  the  streets  ;  the  old  emperors  would  step  out  from 
their  j)laces  in  the  walls,  and  address  the  assembled  people, 
who  bent  before  the  Madonna,  as  she  sat  in  a  halo  of  burning 
lamps.  The  sandstone  image  of  the  Princess  Matilda  would 
rise  from  its  fragile  coffin,  and  become  flesh  and  blood,  and 
her  faithful  dog  Qvedl  would  again  bark  merrily,  so  that  no 
one  should  fall  asleep  when  the  evil  powers  approached. 

It  was  as  if  the  monotonous  plashing  of  the  water  murmured 
the  powerful  words  of  enchantment  that  could  absolve  the  city 
from  its  magical  transmutation,  and  I  understood  that  mighty 
hieroglyphic,  — "  When  thou  hast  slept,  this  will  awake  !  " 
And  it  was  true  ;  for  when  I  sallied  out  into  the  street  the 
next  morning  the  sun  shone  brightly  on  the  houses  —  which 
looked  by  no  means  spectral  —  and  from  the  window  opposite 
the  smiling  face  of  a  girl  peeped  forth,  which,  better  than  thou- 
sands of  printed  proclamations,  announced  that  no  magical 
transmutation  lay  over  old  Goslar. 

At  the  opera-house  in  Berlin  they  perform  a  ballet  called 
"  Die  Neue  Amazone,"  in  which,  amongst  other  scenes,  there 
appears  a  vessel  sailing  down  a  river.  The  vessel  itself  rocks 
but  does  not  proceed,  but  the  scene  behind  glides  continually 
forward  over  the  stage,  thus  showing  how  the  country  changes 


40  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

as  they  sail  along.  When  one  has  looked  at  it  for  some  mo- 
ments, it  quite  deceives  the  eye,  and  we  imagine  that  we  are 
sailing  too.  If  the  same  experiment  could  be  made  here,  you, 
my  dear  reader,  should  likewise  see  how  the  beautiful  scenery 
changed  as  I  wandered  on. 

Goslar  now  lay  behind  me  ;  between  the  mountains  the 
road  led  past  a  mill,  where  the  merry  journeyman  was  strug- 
gling in  the  doorway  with  a  girl,  to  get  a  kiss. 

A  steep  bank,  where  the  yellow  ochreous  earth  shone  forth, 
rose  close  by,  with  the  ruins  of  an  old  watch-tower.  The 
prospect  now  became  more  extensive  ;  Ockerdalen  (the  Ochre- 
dale),  with  its  smelting-huts,  lay  around  us.  The  black  smoke 
curled  in  the  air,  and  contrasted  strangely  with  the  blue-white 
mist  about  the  mountains.  The  fierce  red  fire  burnt  within 
the  huts,  and  the  smelted  ore  ran  down,  like  lava,  with  green 
and  white  flames,  into  a  gutter  over  the  floor. 

A  little  path  led  us  over  field  and  meadow,  into  the  green 
leafy  wood,  which,  however,  soon  changed  for  the  old  dark 
pines.  Round  about  were  several  springs  of  water,  so  that  the 
earth  in  several  places  was  a  marsh,  and  my  guide  plumped 
in  to  the  knees.  We  met  several  wandering  students,  in 
white  travelling  blouses,  and  with  flowers  in  their  caps  :  an- 
other party  had  three  or  four  large  dogs  with  them,  and  looked 
not  unlike  Carl  Moor's  troopers.  The  forest  resounded  with 
whistling  and  shouting;  but  I  neither  saw  nor  heard  any  birds 
in  that  large  and  quiet  forest. 

We  came  up  with  a  wandering  postman,  who  was  going  to 
Blankenburg  \  he  told  us  that  on  this  road,  until  within  the 
last  two  3'ears,  there  had  been  many  "  Spitzbuben  "  (knares 
and  robbers),  and  that  even  now  it  was  not  always  safe  at 
night ;  and  strange  enough  it  was,  that  as  he  told  this,  the 
forest  at  once  became  thicker,  much  darker,  and  consequently 
also  far  more  solemn. 

A  thunder-cloud  gathered  over  us,  and  the  first  discharge 
of  heaven's  artillery  rolled  between  the  mountains  as  we  en- 
tered the  village  of  Ilsenburg. 

The  baronial  castle  here  is  finely  situated,  but  appeared 
somewhat  ruinous.  The  nettles  grew  up  high  before  the 
walls,  whence  the  red  fragments  of  stone  had  fallen  down  into 
the  river. 


ILSE.  41 

The  Brocken  was  quite  enveloped  in  the  large  thunder- 
cloud, which  darted  its  lightning  down  amongst  the  pine- 
trees  ;  yet,  after  a  rest  of  a  few  hours,  I  determined  to  ascend 
the  mountain. 

A  fresh  guide  announced  himself,  the  thunder  was  past,  and 
we  set  off  through  the  beautiful  valley  Ilsedal.  "  Beautiful !  '■' 
How  little  does  there  not  lie  in  the  mere  word  ?  Yet  the 
painter  himself  cannot,  with  his  living  colors,  represent  nature 
in  all  its  greatness  ;  how,  then,  should  the  poet  be  able  to  do 
it  with  words  ?  No  ;  could  tones  become  corporeal  ;  could 
we  paint  with  tones,  as  with  pen  and  ink,  then  we  should  be 
able  to  represent  the  spiritual,  —  that  which  seizes  the  heart 
when  the  bodily  eye  sees  a  new  and  wondrously  charming 
scene  of  nature. 

The  river  Use  ran  on  with  a  stormy  current  by  the  side  of 
our  path  ;  high  pine  covered  mountains  lay  on  both  sides. 
The  naked  rock  Ilsenstein,  with  a  large  iron  cross  on  its  high- 
est point,  rose  perpendicularly  in  the  air  j  it  made  one's  neck 
ache  to  look  up  to  this  height ;  and  yet  when  we  stand  on  the 
Brocken  the  eye  looks  far  down  in  search  of  it.  The  oppo- 
site side  is  a  rocky  wall  of  similar  exterior  ;  everything  around 
indicates  that  these  rocks,  by  some  mighty  convulsion  of  na- 
ture, have  been  riven  asunder,  thereby  forming  a  bed  for  the 
river  Use.  In  this  mighty  rock,  says  the  legend,  lives  the 
beautiful  Princess  Use,  who,  with  the  first  beams  of  the  morn- 
ing sun,  rises  from  her  couch,  and  bathes  herself  in  the  clear 
stream  ;  happy  is  he  who  finds  her  here  ;  but  only  few  have 
seen  her,  for  she  fears  the  sight  of  man,  though  she  is  good 
and  kind. 

When  the  Deluge  blotted  out  man  from  the  earth,  the  waters 
of  the  Baltic  also  rose  high,  high  up  into  Germany  ;  the  beau- 
tiful Use  then  fled,  with  her  bridegroom,  from  the  northern 
lands  here  toward  the  Hartz,  where  the  Brocken  seemed  to 
offer  them  a  retreat.  At  length  they  stood  on  this  enormous 
rock,  which  projected  far  above  the  swelling  sea  ;  the  sur- 
rounding lands  were  hidden  under  the  waves ;  huts,  human 
beings,  and  animals,  had  disappeared.  Alone  they  stood, 
arm  in  arm,  looking  down  on  the  waves  as  they  broke  against 
the  rock.     But  the  waters  rose  higher  ;  in  vain  they  sought 


42  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

an  uncovered  ridge  of  rock  where  they  could  ascend  the 
Brocken,  that  lay  like  a  large  island  amid  the  stormy  sea. 
The  rock  on  which  they  stood  then  trembled  under  them  ;  an 
immense  cleft  opened  itself  there,  and  threatened  to  tear  them 
away  ;  still  they  held  each  other's  hands ;  the  side  walls  bent 
forward  and  backward  ;  they  fell  together  into  the  rushing 
flood.  From  her  the  river  Use  has  obtained  its  name,  and 
she  still  lives  with  her  bridegroom  within  the  flinty  rock. 

We  proceeded  further  into  the  forest ;  the  way  began  to 
wind  upward  toward  the  Brocken ;  the  declining  sun  could 
not  shine  in  between  the  thick  pines  ;  round  about  lay  the 
huts  of  charcoal-burners,  enveloped  in  a  bluish  smoke,  so  that 
the  whole  had  a  still,  strange,  and  romantic  character.  It 
was  a  picture  that  attuned  the  soul  to  sadness. 

THE  CHARCOAL-BURNER. 

Here  between  the  forest  pines 
From  the  hut  the  red  glare  shines  ; 
The  coal-black  smoke  the  roof  ascends  j 
There  the  charcoal-burner  bends. 
Illumined  by  the  fire's  warm  glow, 
He  looks  half  black  —  half  crimson  now; 
Whilst  he  the  glowing  masses  turns, 
The  fire  brighter,  deeper  burns. 

Leaning  on  his  staff  so  long, 
He  chants  aloud  an  ancient  song  : 
"  The  pine-tree,  year  by  year  it  grows. 
Through  summer's  heat  and  mnter's  snows  ; 
Like  my  own  true  love,  I  ween, 
Always  green,  but  darkly  green  !  " 
The  song  to  him  no  comfort  brings. 
But  the  fire  deepens,  as  he  sings. 

The  road  went  more  and  more  upward  ;  round  about  lay 
enormous  masses  of  rock.  The  river  rushed  over  the  large 
blocks,  and  formed  a  succession  of  water-falls.  Sometimes 
the  channel  of  the  river  was  hemmed  in  between  two  narrow 
cliffs,  where  the  black  stream  then  boiled  with  a  snow-white 
foam  ;  sometimes  it  rushed  on,  broad  and  unchecked,  between 
the  fallen  pines,  and  carried  the  large  green  branches  with  it. 

As  we  continued  to  ascend,  the  bed  of  the  river  became 


THE  B rocken:  43 

less  —  tlie  stream  diminished,  as  it  were,  to  a  spring ;  and  at 
last  we  saw  only  the  large  water-drops  that  bubbled  forth  from 
the  moss. 

The  Brocken  gave  me  an  idea  of  a  northern  tumulus,  and 
that  on  a  grand  scale.  Here  stone  lies  piled  on  stone,  and  a 
strange  silence  rests  over  the  whole.  Not  a  bird  twitters  in 
the  low  pines  ;  round  about  are  white  grave-flowers,  growing 
in  the  high  moss,  and  stones  lie  in  masses  on  the  sides  of  the 
mountain-top. 

We  were  now  on  the  top,  but  everything  was  in  a  mist.  We 
stood  in  a  cloud. 

A  choir  of  music  sounded  clearly  from  the  inn  up  here. 
There  were  about  forty  travellers  there ;  some  of  them  had 
brought  instruments  with  them,  and  were  playing  merrily  from 
"  Fra  Diavolo,"  "  Masaniello,"  and  other  popular  pieces. 

Three  thousand  five  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea, 
in  the  midst  of  a  cloud,  but  behind  a  five  foot  thick  wall,  — 
here  I  sat  in  a  little  room,  and  warmed  myself  by  the  hot 
stove.  The  mattresses  of  the  bed  were  stuffed  with  sea-weed 
from  Denmark:  thus  I  could  lie  down  to  rest  on  Danish 
ground  high  aloft  in  the  clouds. 

The  cows  were  driven  home ;  they  had  bells  on,  and  it 
sounded  prettily ;  but  out  of  doors  everything  was  still  in 
mist ;  it  began  to  blow,  and  the  wind  drove  the  clouds  onward 
over  the  mountain's  top,  as  if  they  were  flocks  of  sheep. 
Three  ladies,  with  large  hats  on  their  heads,  ran  about  and 
plucked  the  white  Brocken-flowers.  The  clouds  touched  their 
legs,  so  that  it  looked  like  the  witches'  scene  in  "  Macbeth." 

There  was  a  knock  at  my  door,  and  in  came  the  good 
school-master,  with  whom  I  had  travelled  from  Brunswick  ; 
it  seems,  we  were  destined  to  meet  on  Bloxbjerg.  In  company 
with  his  old  friend  in  Goslar,  to  whom  he  was  on  a  visit,  he 
had  come  up  here  two  hours  earlier  than  I,  and  had  already 
made  acquaintance  with  several  of  the  travellers,  who  all,  ac- 
cording to  his  account,  were  very  genteel  and  polite  persons. 
He  was  extremely  happy,  and  showed  me  how  many  verses 
he  had  already  written  out  of  the  books  kept  on  the  Brocken, 
and  which  he  intended  to  take  home. 

It  is  well  known  that  here,  and  in  every  other  remarkable 


44  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

place  in  Germany  visited  by  strangers,  a  book  is  kept  in  which 
the  travellers  write  their  names,  and  sometimes  a  whole  verse  ; 
and  it  was  a  selection  of  these  that  he  had  copied  out. 

There  were  a  few  drawings  in  the  book  ;  genius  had  shown 
itself  in  many  ways  :  and  how  many  have  not  here  dreamed 
of  immortality  when  they  wrote  their  names  !  Now  if  all 
these  be  immortal,  then  I  shall  be  so  too  ;  for  I  wrote  mine. 

The  school-master  presented  me  to  his  friend,  but  he  did 
not  please  me  at  all ;  he  appeared  to  me  so  still,  and  with 
such  a  say-nothing  air  about  him,  though  I  could  see  he  endeav- 
ored to  put  some  character  into  his  face.  He  was  one  of 
those  persons  who,  if  he  had  been  a  doctor,  and  with  this 
his  usual  mien  when  feeling  a  patient's  pulse,  had  sat  down 
and  kept  silence,  one  would  have  said,  "  He  is  thinking ; " 
although  I  should  have  thought  he  had  just  made  a  pause 
in  his  thoughts. 

We  were,  however,  called  out  of  doors,  where  the  whole 
company  were  assembled.  The  musicians  had  taken  their 
places  on  the  top  of  the  tower,  and  all  the  other  travellers 
furnished  themselves  with  broomsticks,  fire-shovels,  sticks,  and 
what  they  could  get :  they  invited  us  to  take  part  in  a  great 
dance  of  witches  in  the  declining  twilight.  One  took  the 
other  by  the  hand  —  great  and  little,  stout  and  thin,  all  joined 
in  the  mad-cap  fun,  and  the  merry  intermezzo  began  : 

THE   INSTRUMENTS   OF  THE  TOWER. 

We  are  merry,  merry,  ho  ! 

Each  drums,  and  blows  like  a  musical  fellow  ; 

Passing  from  "  Fra  Diavolo  " 

To  the  "Bride"  and  " Masaniello." 


Dolorem  furca  pellas  ex  ; 

I've  sung  it  in  the  heather ! 
I'm  a  witch,  thou'rt  a  witch, 

We're  witches  all  together  ! 

THE    ROCK. 

Dance  on  !  I  lie  here  like  a  stone, 
And  cannot  share  your  game ; 

But  when  you've  passed  hence  one  by  one, 
I  still  shall  be  the  same. 


THE  BROCKEN.  45 

THE   ELVES. 

We  sit  here  behind  the  flower, 
To  see  you  dance  at  midnight  hour ! 
What  clowns  are  those  upon  the  tower, 
Making  discord  near  our  bower  ? 

THE   LOVER. 

I  am  lifted  the  clouds  above ; 

For  how  deeply  was  I  blest, 
And  wafted  to  the  heaven  of  love, 

When  her  lips  to  mine  where  pressed  ! 


Dolorem  furca  pellas  ex ; 

I've  sung  it  in  the  heather ! 
I'm  a  witch,  thou'rt  a  witch. 

We're  witches  all  together  ! 

Toward  midnight  all  was  again  still  in  the  house. 

The  moon  began  to  force  her  light  through  the  mist,  and 
cast  her  pale  beams  into  the  long  narrow  chamber.  I  could 
not  sleep,  and  therefore  ascended  the  tower  to  enjoy  the 
prospect.  Whoever  has  in  his  dreams  soared  over  the  earth, 
and  seen  lands,  with  towns  and  forests  far  below  him,  has 
a  remote  idea  of  this  inconceivable  magnificence.  The  pine 
covered  mountains  below  me  were  of  a  pitchy  darkness ; 
white  clouds,  illumined  by  the  moon,  darted  like  spirits  along 
the  mountain's  side.  There  was  no  boundary  •  the  eye  lost 
itself  in  an  infinity ;  towns  with  their  towers,  charcoal-burners' 
huts,  with  their  columns  of  smoke,  all  stood  forth  in  the 
transparent  veil  of  mist,  which  the  moon  illumined.  It  was 
Fancy's  world  of  dreams  that  lay  before  me,  full  of  life.  In  the 
times  when  might  was  right,  many  a  knight  with  his  esquire  has 
lain  here  in  the  dark  forests,  lurking  for  the  merchant  as  he 
bore  his  costly  wares  from  city  to  city.  Yonder,  where  not  a 
trace  now  remains,  on  the  lofty  cliff,  stood  the  baronial  castle, 
with  its  high  strong  walls  and  lofty  towers,  and  resounded 
with  mirth  in  the  long  winter  nights.  The  mists  rose  higher 
and  higher  between  the  dark  mountains,  the  clouds  assumed 
strange  forms  as  they  hurried  on.  There,  thought  I,  there, 
in  that  wide  circle  grows  the  enchanted  flower,  the  "Wun- 


46  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

derbluhme,"  of  the  dwellers  on  the  Hartz,  which  many  a 
childish  heart  in  its  simplicity  still  seeks.  Only  one  found 
it,  but  he  himself  knew  it  not  before  it  was  lost.  I  did  not 
seek  it  here ;  I  felt  it  growing  in  my  heart ;  angels  had  sown 
the  seed  there  when  I  still  slumbered  in  the  cradle  —  it  grew, 
it  extended  its  magic  fragrance ;  fa7icy,  this  life's  glorious 
flower,  unfolded  itself  more  in  my  heart,  and  I  heard  and  saw 
a  new  and  greater  nature  around  me. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MORNING.  —  BAUMANN'S    CAVE.  —  THE     ANTIQUARY.  —  BLANK  - 

ENBURG. 

IT  was  about  half-past  two  when  I  was  called  up  to  see  the 
sun  rise ;  most  of  the  visitors  were  already  out  of  doors, 
wrapped  up  in  cloaks  and  mantles.  With  handkerchiefs  round 
their  heads,  there  stood  a  motley  group  of  persons  from  widely 
different  places,  all  with  one  thought,  —  "  The  sun  is  now  ris- 
ing." 

It  appeared  as  if  we  stood  on  an  island,  for  the  clouds  lay 
below  us,  as  far  as  we  could  see,  like  a  huge  swelling  ocean 
that  had  suddenly  ceased  to  move.  No  red  streak,  as  in  the 
morning,  showed  in  the  blue  heavens  above ;  the  sun  rose 
without  its  rays,  like  a  large  ball  of  blood,  and  not  until  it  was 
above  the  horizon  did  its  clear  light  stream  forth  over  the  sea 
of  clouds. 

Our  old  school-master  stood  with  clasped  hands,  and  said 
not  a  word  for  a  long  time,  but  smiled  with  satisfaction.  Ac 
length  he  exclaimed,  "  I  wish  I  had  mother  and  the  children 
here  ;  yes,  and  old  Anne  (their  servant  girl),  it  would  please 
her  to  her  heart's  content ;  here  is  place  enough  for  them  all 
together.  I  always  think  of  that  when  I  see  anything  really 
fine.  Here  now  is  a  good  place  for  so  many  good  friends, 
were  they  but  here,  so  they  also  might  have  the  good  of  it." 

As  the  sun  rose  higher  the  light  clouds  began  to  evaporate 
—  the  ether,  as  it  were,  absorbed  them,  whilst  the  wind  drove 
the  heavier  clouds  down  between  the  mountains,  which  now 
rose  like  islands  in  the  great  sea  of  clouds.  Everything  soon 
became  clearer  and  clearer  ;  we  saw  towns  and  church-towers, 
fields  and  meadows,  —  all  appeared  like  the  most  charming 
miniature  landscapes  round  about.  So  fine  a  morning  there 
had  not  been  that  year  on  the  Brocken.  We  could  see  Mag- 
deburg, with  its  towers,  quite  distinctly ;  also  Halberstadt  and 


48  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

Qvedlingburg,  the  towers  of  the  high  cathedral  at  Erfurt,  the 
mountain  palaces  Die  Gleichen,  and  Wilhelmshohe,  near  Cas- 
sel,  besides  a  throng  of  lesser  places  and  villages  round  about. 

I  clambered  up  to  the  so-called  witches'  altar,  and  the 
"  Teufelskanzel,"  ten  feet  in  height,  drank  of  the  ice-cold 
water  which  streams  from  the  witches'  well,  gathered  a  Brocken 
bouquet,  which  the  girl  fixed  in  my  cap,  and  bade  farewell  to 
my  new  acquaintances,  particularly  to  the  good  old  school- 
master, who  seemed  so  well  pleased  with  the  whole  company 
here,  that  he  begged  me  and  them  to  write  in  his  scrap-book, 
that  he  might  show  them  at  home  all  the  names  of  the  kind 
good  persons  he  had  met  here.  We  almost  all  wrote  in  it ; 
mine  was  the  only  Danish  name  —  and  then  we  parted. 

I  had  joined  a  family  from  Hamburg.  The  guide  went  on 
before,  the  caravan  followed  step  for  step,  and  the  little  ass 
which  bore  the  baggage  closed  the  troop.  We  had  each  of 
us  got  a  green  branch  in  our  hands,  with  which  we  drove 
our  slow-paced  Pegasus,  who  now  and  then  seemed  disposed 
to  make  himself  too  comfortable.  Sometimes  the  road  led 
through  the  thick  forest,  sometimes  by  the  edge  of  the  rock, 
when  we  saw  the  lesser  mountains,  far  below,  with  their  dark 
pines  :  they  appeared  like  hills  where  some  one  had  planted 
potatoes,  which  raised  their  low  green  tops  in  the  air.  The 
strange  light  veil  that  lay  over  the  -whole  scene  beneath  us 
looked  as  if  it  were  a  large  green  glass  through  which  one 
saw  the  whole  magnificent  scenery.  The  mist  stood  as  if 
pressed  together  in  a  cloud  between  the  narrow  rocky  walls ; 
one  could  not  see  the  objects  below  it,  and  yet  it  lay  so  light 
and  airy  that  the  eye  felt  it  must  be  fine  as  the  air  itself 

The  birds  began  to  sing,  the  dew  lay  in  clear  drops  on  the 
flowers,  and  the  sun  shone  on  the  great  and  glorious  landscape 
before  us.  How  beautiful  the  world  is !  what  endless  gran- 
deur, from  the  smallest  flower  with  its  fragrance,  to  my  heart 
with  its  flaming  thoughts,  and  again  from  that  to  the  great 
globe,  with  its  glorious  mountains  and  the  swelling  seas  ! 

What  cares  the  heart  about  what  the  flower  dreams,  whilst 
it  expands  its  odors  so  sweetly  powerful  in  the  morning  dev/  ? 
—  there  is  something  far  greater,  something  far  more  impor- 
tant, that  sets  it  in  motion.     What  cares  the  world  about  the 


BAUMANN' s  CAVE. 


49 


longings  of.  a  single  heart,  and  the  flower's  fragrance  ? — might- 
ier passions,  the  combats  and  destruction  of  a  whole  people, 
revolutions  in  nature,  and  the  life  of  man,  are  its  dreams  and 
thoughts. 

At  Elbingerode,  a  little  mountain  town,  I  bade  farewell  to 
my  fellow-travellers. 

The  naked  rocks  soon  rose  on  both  sides  of  a  narrow  path 
that  wound  along  by  the  small  river.  I  was  in  Riibeland,  a 
name  derived  from  "  Rauberland,"  because,  in  olden  times, 
there  stood  a  robber's  castle  here  on  one  of  the  cliffs,  which 
has  now  almost  entirely  disappeared,  the  moat  and  part  of  the 
walls  alone  remaining. 

On  the  other  side  of  Riibeland  —  a  village  so  called  —  a 
little  mountain-path  led  up  to  the  recess  in  the  rock,  where 
one  enters  Baumann's  cave.  Here  I  found  two  other  travel- 
lers ;  each  of  us  got  a  lighted  lamp,  the  guide  went  on  before, 
and  we  entered  this  petrified  world  of  fancy. 

The  entrance  was  through  an  aperture  that  looked  as  if  the 
foxes  had  dug  it :  we  could  not  walk  erect.  It  was  as  if  we  had 
entered  the  ruins  of  an  old  castle's  cellar,  where  the  walls  had 
half  fallen  down.  The  water-drops  fell  with  a  monotonous 
plashing  :  otherwise,  all  was  still  as  death.  We  descended 
the  wet  paths,  as  well  as  we  could,  lamp  in  hand.  Round 
about,  above,  and  below  us,  it  was  pitchy  dark ;  the  lamp- 
light showed  us  only  the  narrow  paths,  which  seemed  as  if  they 
would  never  end.  The  strange  uncertainty  of  not  knowing 
how  deep  it  was  below  us,  made  it  far  more  terrible  than  it 
really  was.  If  we  only  held  fast ;  only  took  care  to  step  to 
the  right  side,  first  with  the  left,  and  then  with  the  right  leg ; 
and  if  only  the  ladder  did  not  break  —  or  else  we  might  break 
our  necks  —  there  was  no  danger  :  this  was  the  continued  as- 
surance given  us  by  our  guide. 

How  unilateral  men  are,  in  fact,  in  the  full  signification  of 
the  word  !  We  see  daily  the  greatest  precipices  above  us,  and 
for  a  circumference  of  miles  around  us,  but  none  of  these  causes 
us  any  anxiety ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  far  less  precipice, 
when  it  goes  downward,  causes  us  to  be  giddy.  Downward  ! 
—  that  is  a  side  of  which  we  all  stand  in  dread  ;  and  yet  we 
must  all  go  downward  —  there  we  first  find  peace  and  rest. 
4 


50  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

From  cavern  to  cavern,  we  descended  deeper  and  deeper  ;  it 
was  sometimes  so  low  and  narrow  that  we  were  obliged  to  go 
singly,  in  a  stooping  position,  under  the  overhanging  masses 
of  limestone  :  sometimes  it  was  so  high  and  wide  that  the  light 
of  our  lamps  would  not  reach  the  side  walls. 

We  were  shown  six  different  divisions  ;  but  besides  these, 
there  was  a  vast  number  of  lesser  caverns,  all  of  which  have 
have  not  been  explored  :  they  probably  are  connected  with 
Biel's  cave,  and  even  extend  deep  under  the  Hartz. 

These  deep,  dark  abysses  yawned  round  about,  and  the  most 
singular  stalactites  hung  around  in  clusters  \  yet  they  did  not 
all  resemble  the  objects  which  the  guide  informed  us  they  did.  I 
think  I  possess  some  imagination,  but  I  could  not,  nevertheless, 
agree  with  him.  There  were,  besides,  thousands  of  things  he 
did  not  point  out,  in  which  there  was  far  more  significance. 
An  organ,  the  canopy  of  a  throne,  and  a  banner,  which  the 
dripping  stones  had  shaped  into  these  forms,  were  the  three 
figures  that  most  resembled  those  objects  ;  but  I  will  not  say 
anything  against  this  powerful  fancy  of  nature.  Everything 
that  one  particularly  admires  here,  is  but  an  imitation  of  what 
shows  itself  more  perfectly  in  nature.  The  original  stalactites, 
to  which  one  does  not  find  anything  similar,  I  should  also  im- 
agine are  interesting  ;  they  appeared  to  me  as  significant  hie- 
roglyphics that  held  the  key  to  the  greatest  secrets  of  nature. 

A  well  of  clear  water  bubbled  forth  at  our  feet ;  we  drank 
of  the  pure  crystal.  One  of  the  travellers  found  the  bone  of 
an  animal,  which  he  regarded  with  much  attention,  and  then 
assured  us  that  it  must  certainly  be  the  remains  of  an  ancient 
animal.  I  had  nothing  to  object  to  this  supposition,  for  it 
looked  very  much  like  the  bone  of  a  cow ;  and  cows  are  an 
old  race. 

The  cavern  has  received  its  name  from  its  discoverer.  A 
miner  named  Baumann  was  the  first  who  visited  itj  in  1670, 
to  look  for  ore ;  he  found  nothing,  and  prepared,  therefore,  to 
return,  but  he  could  not  find  the  outlet.  Two  days  and  nights 
he  crept  about,  before  he  discovered  it ;  but  he  was  then  so 
exhausted  in  mind  and  body,  so  affected  by  anxiety  and  hun- 
ger, that  he  died  shortly  afterward,  yet  not  before  he  had  in- 
formed his  friends  of  the  strange  and  wonderful  structure  of 
the  interior  of  the  cavern. 


THE  ANTIQUARY.  5I 

The  fate  and  feelings  of  the  unfortunate  miner,  Baumann, 
made  such  an  impression  on  me  here,  in  this  labyrinth  of  cav- 
erns and  gulfs,  that  my  heart  beat  faster ;  I  saw  what  he  must 
have  felt  here,  alone,  given  up  to  terror  and  death  by  hunger. 
Only  when  I  saw  the  clear  daylight,  and  the  blue  sky,  did  I 
again  feel  myself  well,  and  amongst  the  living.  It  was  as  if  I 
had  awakened  from  a  horrible  dream,  and  as  if  all  the  strange, 
deformed,  terrifying  images  lay  petrified  behind  me :  the  sun 
again  shone  into  my  eyes  and  heart. 

The  antiquary  whose  acquaintance  I  had  made  in  the  cav- 
ern determined  on  going  to  Qvedlingburg  the  same  evening  ; 
and  as  his  way  lay  over  Blankenburg,  we  became  travelling 
companions.  He  knew  a  path  across  the  fields  that  would 
spare  us  a  couple  of  miles'  circuit ;  we  therefore  climbed  up 
the  clifif,  which  here  was  only  so  high  that  it  projected  over  a 
mill  that  lay  beneath,  and  where  the  water  rushed  over  the 
large  wheel.  He  was  a  very  good-natured  man,  whose  life's 
happiness  hung  on  an  old  coin.  He  took  his  cow-bone  out 
every  moment,  and  assured  me  that  it  must  have  been  that  of 
one  of  the  Huns.  No  landscape,  he  confessed  to  me,  had  that 
smiling,  that  spiritual  beauty  in  it,  which  was  to  be  discerned 
in  such  an  antiquity.  He  asked  me  if  we  also  collected  antique 
remains  in  Denmark  ?  I  was  obliged  to  tell  him  what  I  knew  \ 
and  when  I  began  to  speak  about  our  barrows,^  and  sacrificial 
altars,  whereof  one  sees  none  in  Germany,  he  began  to  feel  a 
real  respect  for  my  country,  and  regarded  me  as  happy  in  liv- 
ing in  this  saga  land.     At  last,  he  luoidd  have  me  with  him  to 

1  The  barrows,  or  tumuli,  are  still  numerous  in  many  parts  of  Denmark, 
though  many  have  been  dug  up  and  explored  by  members  of"  The  Society 
for  the  Preservation  of  Northern  Antiquities."  Rich  treasures  have  often 
been  found,  all  of  which  are  in  the  museum,  which  contains  a  very  rich 
collection,  consisting  of  many  thousands  of  objects  worthy  the  attention  of 
the  archæologist.  By  a  decree  of  the  state,  it  is  ordered  that  all  relics  of 
antiquity  found  in  digging,  ploughing,  or  otherwise,  shall  be  sent  to  "  The 
Museum  of  Northern  Antiquities,"  the  finders  receiving  the  full  value  of 
the  articles  found,  be  they  coins,  gold  or  silver  ornaments,  arms,  dresses, 
or  other  relics  ;  and  this  order  has  in  almost  every  instance  been  com- 
plied with,  so  that  the  national  collection  has  been  considerably  enriched, 
and  continues  to  augment  every  year.  The  museum  is  in  Copenhagen,  in 
one  of  the  wings  of  the  palace  of  Christiansborg,  and  is  open  to  the  pub- 
lic three  days  in  the  week  during  the  year.  — Translator. 


52 


RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 


Qvedlingburg,  to  see  the  palace,  the  old  churches,  and  all  the 
many  curiosities  there. 

Only  think  !  —  there  was  still  one  of  the  six  jars  in  which 
Christ  had  changed  the  water  into  wine  at  the  marriage  in 
Cana  ;  a  piece  of  the  finger  of  John,  with  which  he  had 
pointed  at  Christ ;  a  bottle  of  Mother  Mary's  own  milk  ;  earth 
from  Golgotha ;  a  piece  of  our  Saviour's  cross,  etc,  etc.  ;  and 
what  was  particularly  remarkable,  the  comb  that  Heinrich 
the  bird-catcher  had  used  to  comb  his  beard  with.  Yet  all 
these  well  authenticated  (?)  relics  did  not  tempt  me;  my  long- 
ing was  for  majestic  nature. 

I  arrived  at  Blankenburg,  and  asked  at  the  gate  of  the  city 
for  the  names  of  the  best  inns  ;  they  mentioned,  amongst 
others,  "  Der  Weisse  Adler  "  (the  White  Eagle),  and  I  chose 
that,  because  the  eagle  was  Jupiter's  and  Napoleon's  bird  ; 
an  inviting  sign,  but  which  the  innkeeper  had  scarcely  thought 
of  when  he  had  it  painted  over  his  door.  I  got  a  room  with 
a  very  picturesque  prospect.  Directly  opposite,  I  had  for 
neighbors  two  students,  with  red  Greek  caps  and  Scotch  dress- 
ing-gowns. Large  folios  lay  on  the  table,  and  the  persons 
themselves  lolled  out  of  the  window,  with  their  long  pipes, 
whilst  the  old  castle  of  Blankenburg,  built  on  a  mountain,  rose, 
high  above  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  which  lay  like  a  foreground 
t»  this  fine  theatrical  decoration. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

THE    RUINS    OF    REGENSTEIN.  THE     TAILOR's     WIFE.  ROSZ- 

TRAPPE.  A   TOUR    TO    ALEXIS    BATHS, 

AT  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  were  again  on  foot ;  our 
Brocken  bouquets  still  sat  quite  fresh  in  our  *'  miitzer  " 
(caps),  a  female  guide  was  in  waiting  for  us,  and  thus  we,  six 
studiosi,  set  off  from  the  town  to  the  ruins  of  the  old  mountain 
castle  of  Regenstein,  situated  close  to  Blankenburg.  The 
fields  were  covered  with  dew  —  it  was  the  powerful  sunlight 
that  caused  the  eyes  of  the  flowers  and  grass  to  fill  with 
water.  We  passed  through  an  avenue  of  cherry-trees,  hopped 
over  the  wet  field,  and  each  sung  his  own  song.  The  birds 
took  example  by  us,  so  that  the  whole  neighborhood  resounded 
with  the  songs  of  students  and  the  warbling  of  birds. 

We  now  ascended  the  cliff,  the  topmost  part  of  which  forms 
the  ruins  of  the  castle  of  Regenstein ;  the  walls  have  disap- 
peared, but  all  that  is  hewed  out  in  the  rock  itself  stands  like 
a  mighty  gigantic  mummy,  and  tells  of  olden  times,  though  it 
cannot  speak  a  word.  It  had  such  an  imposing  appearance, 
it  was  so  great,  that  I  was  not  myself  rightly  aware  of  it  before 
the  pencil  moved  in  my  hand,  and  traced  the  colossal  image 
off  in  my  note-book.  I  became  a  draughtsman  without  ever 
having  had  an  hour's  instruction  in  the  art.  The  fields  lay  far 
below,  like  beds  in  a  kitchen-garden  \  the  farmer  behind  his 
plough  was  like  a  snail  in  his  shell,  creeping  along  the  ground. 
The  church,  which  is  hollowed  in  the  rock,  will  remain  firm  for 
centuries,  though  it  is  only  a  large  cave  without  form.  The 
chambers,  where  there  had  been  dormitories,  are  only  recesses 
in  the  rock,  where  the  large  masses  of  stone  project  above  the 
head  ;  we  threw  stones  into  the  deep  well,  and  had  almost  left 
the  place  ere  we  heard  that  they  had  reached  the  bottom. 

"If  the  stones   here  could  speak,"  said   I,    "what   would 


54  RAMBLES  IN   THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

they  not  be  able  to  tell  us  about  all  that  has  happened  from 
the  time  when  '  Heinrich  the  bird-catcher '  founded  the  castle, 
until  I  came  from  Denmark  and  saw  its  ruins  ;  then  we  might 
be  able  to  contribute  to  Wallenstein's  history,  and  to  the 
Thirty  Years'  War  ;  then  we  should  certainly  hear  fine  stories 
about  the  Seven  Years'  War,  and  I  might  get  an  idea  for  one 
or  other  chivalric  poem." 

As  I  said  this,  the  flowers  round  about  nodded  their  large 
heads,  and  looked  so  proud  and  stupid  as  they  did  so  !  just 
as  if  they  would  say,  "^  Yes,  you  are  right !  if  we  were  to 
speak  we  could  then  tell  you  something ! "  And  yet  they 
knew  nothing  ;  they  were  all  of  that  year's  growth,  —  all  shot 
up  with  their  stems  that  same  spring. 

We  took  our  seats  on  the  topmost  point  of  the  rock,  which 
forms  the  ceiling  of  the  church,  and  looked  out  into  the  wide 
world,  well  pleased  with  all  around  us.  Beneath  us  masses 
had  been  chanted  centuries  ago,  and  the  lamps  burnt  around 
the  Madonna's  sainted  image  ;  here  we  now  sat  like  profane 
birds,  but  yet  without  thinking  there  was  anything  wrong  in  it, 
and  sung  opera  songs,  and  made  witticisms,  as  well  as  we 
could.  I  was  obliged  to  tell  about  Denmark  and  the  sea,  — 
the  sea,  which  that  glorious  mountain-land  here  knows  noth- 
ing of  :  but  how  shall  one  describe  the  sea  to  those  who  have 
never  seen  it  ?  I  knew  nothing  better  to  liken  it  to  than  the 
great  blue  sky  :  if  one  could  stretch  it  out  over  the  flat  fields 
to  the  boundaries  of  the  horizon,  it  would  then  be  a  sea.  It 
appeared  as  if  they  understood  this  picture. 

It  seemed  as  though  I  imbibed,  with  eye  and  thought,  the 
wide  prospect  from  the  ruins  of  the  old  mountain  castle.  I 
looked  down  into  the  abyss,  and  shut  my  eyes  when  I  had 
done  so,  as  if  to  try  whether  I  had  conceived  the  whole  depth, 
but  when  I  again  opened  my  eyes  and  looked  down,  it  was 
far  deeper  than  I  had  represented  to  myself;  the  extent  on  all 
sides  round  about  was  far  greater  than  the  moment's  memory 
could  embrace. 

I  went  through  the  whole  picture  that  thought  had  drawn, 
and  then  compared  it  with  the  reality.  Towns  and  hamlets 
then  rose  round  about  in  the  vast  extent ;  mountains  with 
their  woods,  Blankenburg  with  its  castle  ;  and  even  the  small 


THE    TAILOR'S   WIFE. 


55 


biped  and  quadruped  figures  far  below  us  then  came  forth 
more  strongly.  Regenstein  itself,  with  its  narrow  chambers, 
its  broken  walls,  and  stairs  that  only  led  from  the  free  air  up 
into  the  same  element,  got,  as  a  picture  by  itself,  its  own  place 
in  my  memory's  pantheon.  Every  ruin  stands,  however,  as  a 
bodily,  gigantic  epos,  that  carries  us  ages  back,  to  other  men 
and  other  customs  \  the  higher  the  grass  grows  in  the  knight's 
hall,  the  slower  the  river  glides  over  the  fallen  columns,  and 
so  much  the  greater  poesy  does  the  heart  find  in  this  stone 
epos.  Time  will  come  when  the  ruin  will  quite  disappear  ; 
even  the  last  trace  of  Regenstein's  hewed  rocks  will  moulder 
away  and  fall  down  ;  but  then  the  legend  about  the  place  will 
still  live,  as  the  remembrance  of  many  a  work  of  the  ancients 
that  has  entirely  disappeared,  still  endures. 

We  bade  adieu  to  the  old  castle,  and  turned  down  a  little 
path  between  the  cliffs,  overgrown  with  brushwood,  which 
brought  us  back  to  Blankenburg  ;  whence  we,  part  of  the  way, 
followed  the  main  road,  planted  on  each  side  with  yellow  roses, 
then  in  bloom. 

Our  female  guide,  with  whom  we  shared  our  breakfast,  be- 
came garrulous,  and  now  told  us  about  her  domestic  happiness 
and  misery.  Her  husband  cultivated  the  art  of  man-making 
—  or,  in  other  words,  the  profession  of  a  tailor :  but  he  was 
born  to  something  higher  than  the  board  on  which  he  sat. 
Two  years  before  our  coming  there  had  been  an  execution  in 
the  neighborhood  ;  it  had  awakened  his  slumbering  abilities  : 
he  had  become  a  poet,  had  written  the  murderer's  whole 
life  and  death  in  mournful  verse,  which  was  penned  as  if  it 
were  the  criminal  himself  who  sang  it  during  his  last  night, 
and  was  set  to  the  air  of,  "  A  bridal  wreath  we  bind  for  thee." 
"  However,  he  gained  four  dollars  by  that,"  said  the  woman, 
"  and  last  year  two,  for  some  verses  over  a  midwife  who  was 
drowned  in  a  horse-pond.  Versemaking  brings  in  more  than 
the  needle,  but  it  has  made  him  so  unreasonable,  and  so  fond 
of  tears  !  Now  there  is  nothing  more  to  write  about,  and  he 
does  not  care  to  use  the  needle  ;  so  that  it  would  look  bad 
enough,  if  I  didn't  gain  something  by  showing  travellers  about. 
There,"  she  exclaimed,  interrupting  herself  as  she  pointed 
over  the  fields  to  the  left,  —  "  there  lies  '  The  Devil's  Wall* 


56  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

which  he  built  at  the  time  when  he  and  our  Lord  disputed 
about  the  mastery  of  the  world." 

There,  sure  enough,  rose  by  the  side  of  us  that  strangely 
formed  mountain-ridge  which  looks  like  the  ruins  of  an  im- 
mense intrenchment,  and  extends  to  a  considerable  distance. 
But  the  eye  can  follow  it.  The  legend  says  that  Satan  was 
not  satisfied  with  having  got  the  mastery  over  half  the  earth, 
but  that  he  renewed  the  dispute,  for  which  reason  he  lost  it 
entirely,  and  his  proud  barrier  was  hurled  down  :  others  relate 
that  it  was  erected  by  the  wicked  spirits,  as  a  wall  against 
Christ's  doctrines,  that  they  should  not  be  extended  far- 
ther j  but  the  stones  were  compelled  to  break  before  the  liv- 
ing word. 

As  I  further  questioned  the  tailor's  wife,  if  it  were  not  pos- 
sible to  learn  the  noble  art  of  versifying,  she  informed  me  in 
confidence  that  her  husband  had  an  old  German  psalm-book, 
out  of  which  he  took  many  pieces,  and  all  of  the  best  rhyme  ; 
therefore  all  his  songs  had  something  spiritual  in  them,  which 
made  them  so  affecting. 

We  now  left  the  high-road,  and  passed  over  fields  and 
meadows  into  the  green  leafy  woods.  I  have  never  heard  so 
many  nightingales  as  here.  The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens, 
yet  they  did  not  seem  to  observe  it  within  the  thick  bushes. 
God  knows  how  it  is  people  say  about  this  bird's  song,  that 
there  is  desire  and  complaint  in  it ;  no,  it  is  anything  but  that ; 
the  nightingale  has  quite  the  Italian  manner ;  its  note  con- 
sists mostly  of  trills,  and  runs  with  the  voice  ;  it  does  not 
complain  at  all  ;  it  sings  its  proud  bravura  airs  in  fullest 
strains.  There  is  something  far  deeper  and  more  solemn  in 
the  song  of  the  thrush  :  it  whistles  for  us  a  northern  ballad, 
simple,  but  touching,  when  it  sits,  in  the  morning  hour,  on  the 
moss-grown  cairn  at  home,  in  Denmark. 

A  wider  prospect  soon  opened  to  our  view ;  the  beautiful 
Thale-dale  lay  before  us  with  its  wide  extent :  we  should 
now  ascend  the  mountains,  and  therefore  rested  first  to  gather 
strength.  It  was  "  Berg  auf "  (up  the  mountain) ;  we  were 
quite  exhausted,  whilst  two  white  butterflies,  that  followed  us 
the  whole  way  up  in  a  fluttering  circular  dance,  seemed  to 
mock  us  weak  children  of  men.     Arrived  at  the  top,  we  took 


ROSZTRAPPE. 


57 


leave  of  our  female  guide,  and  got  a  male  guide  instead,  who 
lived  up  here.  He  took  his  pistol ;  and  after  having  tasted 
his  "birchen  wasser,"  which  effervesces  like  champagne,  we 
followed  him  to  the  so-called  Rosztrappe,^  the  wildest,  the 
most  romantic  point  in  the  whole  Hartz. 

The  high  rocks  go  perpendicularly  down  into  the  deep 
abyss.  We  look  upon  a  great  and  glorious  mountain  scene, 
where  rock  rises  upon  rock  with  gloomy  pine  forests  ;  and  in 
the  deep,  by  looking  into  which  one  becomes  giddy,  there 
rushes  the  river  Bode.  We  saw  a  crowd  of  travellers  below, 
but  they  appeared  like  flowers  in  a  garden-bed.  The  bridge 
over  the  river  was  like  a  plaything  formed  of  a  single  willow 
branch.  Our  guide  fired  his  pistol,  and  its  echo  resounded 
like  the  loudest  thunder.  We  were  shown  a  deep  indentation 
in  the  rock,  which  had  the  appearance  of  a  colossal  horse-shoe 
and  from  which  the  place  takes  its  name. 

The  little  boy  who  accompanied  the  guide  drank  some  of 
the  rain-water  that  had  collected  there,  from  the  hollow  of  his 
hand,  whilst  fancy  showed  him,  jjerhaps  clearer  than  us,  the 
legend  about  the  fugitive  princess,  the  beautiful  Emma  of 
Reisengebirge.  In  time  he  will  succeed  his  father  in  his 
office  as  guide,  and  also  quietly  relate  how  there  —  many 
thousand  years  since  —  lived  giants  and  wizards  here,  who 
tore  up  the  ancient  oaks  on  the  mountains,  and  used  them  as 
clubs  with  which  they  murdered  women  and  children.  He 
will  tell  about  great  Bodo,  who  loved  the  beautiful  Emma^ 
and  pursued  her  hither,  where  she  made  her  horse  spring 
over  \  but  then  he  will  not,  as  now,  himself  see  that  great 
glorious  picture  with  childish  fancy's  colors.  He  now  sees 
her  with  the  heavy  gold  crown  and  fluttering  dress,  flying  with 
her  horse  from  mountain  to  mountain,  from  rock  to  rock, 
through  valley  and  forest,  and  the  wild  Bodo  behind,  —  the 
fire-sparks  fly  from  the  stony  rocks  and  shine  round  about  in 
the  valleys.  Now  she  is  here  by  the  precipice  j  she  sees  the 
deep  before  her,  where  the  river  rushes  frothing  on  over  frag- 
ments of  rock,  and  yet  the  opposite  point  of  rock  appears  more 
distant,  from  her  than  this  immense  depth.  She  hears  Bodo's 
horse  behind,  and  in  dread  desperation  she  calls  on  the  Eter- 
^  The  Horse-stairs. 


c^S  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

nal  to  protect  her,  strikes  the  sharp  spurs  into  the  sides  of 
her  steed,  who  sets  his  foot  so  firmly  on  the  rock  that  its  im- 
press stands  for  centuries.  With  one  spring  she  bounds  over 
the  deep  abyss — and  is  saved;  the  golden  crown  alone 
falls  from  her  head  into  the  deep,  whirling  stream,  where  the 
wild  Bodo  follows,  and  lies  crushed  on  the  flinty  cliffs. 

All  these  dreams  of  fancy  will  vanish  :  the  little  boy  will 
also,  like  the  father,  stand  quietly  and  fire  his  pistol  off,  and 
perhaps  calculate  how  great  his  receipts  may  be  to-day  from 
the  travellers.  Dreams  are,  however,  flowers ;  there  are  good 
and  bad !  Flowers  must  decay,  but  there  will  come  new  ones 
from  the  old  stem  !  The  princess  with  the  golden  crown  and 
flying  horse  will  also  hurry  past  the  new  throng  of  children ; 
they  will  also  look  with  fixed  eyes,  as  the  little  boy  now  does, 
into  the  river  Bode,  and  think  they  see  the  yellow  gold  shin- 
ing through  the  water  once  so  great  and  deep  that  a  diver 
went  down  before  the  assembled  people  and  found  the  golden 
crown,  which  he  raised  so  high  that  they  saw  the  points  above 
the  surface.  It  was  large  and  hea\y  ;  twice  it  fell  from  his 
hands ;  they  shouted  to  him  that  he  should  once  more  de- 
scend to  the  bottom,  and  he  did  so.  A  stream  of  blood  shot 
up  through  the  water  :  they  never  saw  him  or  the  golden 
'crown  more. 

Here  I  left  the  merry  students,  and  went  further  on  into 
the  great  and  beautiful  world.  Close  under  the  cliff"  lay 
Blechhiitterne,  which  I  must  pass,  consequently  I  required  no 
guide.  They  waved  their  hats  and  handkerchiefs  when  they 
saw  me  half  way  down,  as  a  farewell  token  :  it  was  strange  to 
receive  their  "  Live  well  "  thus,  certainly  the  last  in  this  life,  — 
for  how  should  we  all  be  again  assembled  in  this  world  ? 
There  lies  something  very  interesting  in  this :  to  meet,  to 
know,  and  then  to  part  forever ! 

I  was  soon  under  Rosztrappe  :  the  river  Bode  rushed  on 
before  me  over  the  great  stones,  and  on  the  other  side  the 
highway  ran  past  the  red-roofed  houses  \  but  I  saw  no  bridge. 
Over  I  must  go,  but  how  ?  I  ran  along  by  the  river  side, 
but  as  far  as  I  could  see  on  both  sides  there  was  no  passage 
over,  except  by  wading,  or  springing  from  stone  to  stone.  I 
chose  the  latter  course,  but  got  no  farther  than  the  middle, 


AN  EXCURSION  TO  ALEXIS  BATHS.  59 

where  the*  current  foamed  on  both  sides  of  the  large  stone 
block  on  which  I  stood. 

When  I  reached  Blechhiitterne,  and  approached  the  inn,  I 
thought  that  a  hostile  army  had  taken  up  their  quarters  there  ; 
there  was  as  much  noise  as  if  the  chairs  and  tables  had  all 
been  thrown  down  and  broken.  I  entered  the  large  room, 
and  found  that  the  whole  invading  host  consisted  of — four 
students  from  Jena.  They  were  in  complete  sporting  dresses, 
and  had  each  a  green  oak  wreath  around  his  head,  with  hair 
hanging  down  in  long  locks  over  the  white  embroidered  shirt- 
collar.  They  sang  most  lustily,  and  drummed  on  the  table 
with  the  bottles,  so  that  the  glasses  and  plates  danced  again. 
They  appeared  very  good-natured,  and  made  a  pause  in  their 
musical  exercise  as  I  entered.  We  soon  got  into  conversation 
together  ;  they  had  resolved  upon  making  a  journey  to  the 
Brocken,  and  had  wandered  on  foot  from  Jena. 

When  they  heard  that  I  was  a  Dane,  and  a  student,  they- 
put  many  questions  to  me  :  they  asked  me  if  we  had  no 
"  Burschenschaften,"  and  what  color  I  bore  ;  and  when  I  as- 
sured them  that  we  knew  nothing  of  the  kind,  they  showed 
me  their  caps,  and  told  me  that  they  bore  Sand's  color.  Did 
I  know  Sand  ?  —  and  their  eyes  sparkled  as  they  told  me  what 
a  brave  and  glorious  man  he  had  been.  They  were  children 
when  he  was  executed,  but  they  remembered  him  well,  and 
recollected  when  his  head  fell  under  the  sword  of  the  execu- 
tioner. 

Their  ideas  about  Denmark  were,  however,  very  imperfect. 
Thus,  they  thought  that  the  lower  classes  alone  spoke  the 
Danish  language,  and  that  French  was  the  language  of  the 
court  and  the  well-informed  classes  of  the  community. 

When  I  mentioned  the  name  of  Oehlenschlager,  they  asked 
me  if  we  had  any  of  his  works  translated.  I  answered  that 
we  had  them  in  the  original  \  and  they  were  not  a  little  aston- 
ished to  hear  that  he  was  a  Dane,  that  he  lived  in  Denmark, 
and  wrote  there.  I  had  to  describe  to  them  his  appearance, 
to  tell  them  about  him  and  his  works  ;  and  when  they  heard 
that  I  was  personally  acquainted  with  the  poet,  and  that  he 
was  at  that  time  in  Germany,  they  looked  quite  kindly  on  me  ; 
and  when  we  separated,  one  of  them  presented  me  his  oak 


60  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

wreath,  which  he  took  off  his  head  and  set  on  my  cap,  prob- 
ably for  Oehlenschlager's  sake. 

My  way  was  now  to  Gernrode ;  but  if  a  travelling  female 
harpist  had  not  taken  the  peaceful  wanderer  under  her  guid- 
ance, I  should  have  lost  my  way  in  the  green  forest.  I  asked 
her  if  she  were  not  from  Reisengebirge,  but  she  was  from 
another  part,  and  not  at  all  related  to  Lafontaine.  When  she 
had  brought  me  into  the  right  road,  she  sat  down  on  a  stone 
under  a  large  hazel-bush,  and  played  a  piece  for  me  into  the 
bargain  ;  and  then  we  parted,  she  with  her  harp  on  her  back, 
and  I  with  the  harp  in  my  heart,  both  with  the  intention  of 
singing  for  the  world. 

Woods  and  meadows  varied  the  scene :  I  saw  the  ruins  of 
an  old  castle  through  the  trees,  and  above  the  high  bushes  in 
which  it  lay  embosomed  ;  it  looked  very  frail,  and  yet  it  was 
a  great  ornament  on  account  of  its  decayed  state.  It  was  as 
if  Ossian  meant  this  place  when  he  sang,  "  The  thistle  shook 
there  its  lonely  head :  the  moss  whistled  to  the  wind.  The 
fox  looked  out  from  the  windows  ;  the  rank  grass  of  the  wall 
waved  round  its  head."  It  was  the  last  remains  of  the  castle 
of  Lauenborg. 

Gernrode  is  a  little  quiet  village.  I  saw  scarcely  a  soul  in 
the  street,  but  the  window  of  a  small  house  stood  open,  and 
I  heard  a  female  voice  sing  prettily  of  love.  I  listened,  and 
as  the  invisible  one  did  not  appear,  I  took  the  oak  wreath 
from  my  cap  —  which  the  student  had  placed  there  —  and 
after  having  taken  off  one  of  the  leaves,  I  laid  it  by  her  door 
as  "  thanks  for  the  song,"  and  wandered  out  of  the  place. 

The  road  went  up  the  steep  side  of  a  mountain  :  the  clayey, 
yellow  earth  contrasted  strongly  with  the  violet-blue  sky.  Some 
old  women  and  ragged  children  came  down  the  mountain 
with  burdens  of  sticks  they  had  gathered  in  the  forest.  I 
sat  down  and  wrote  in  my  note-book  ;  a  bee  hummed  in  a 
flower  close  by  me  ;  and  thus  all  the  figures  in  that  picture 
were  occupied. 

As  I  approached  Magdesprung,  the  sun  went  down ;  it 
was  quite  twilight  on  the  way  between  the  sides  of  the  moun- 
tains, but  the  light  fell  so  much  the  stronger  on  the  tops  of 
the  trees,  which  cast  long,  dark  shadows.     I  here  overtook 


•  AN  EXCURSION  TO  ALEXIS  BA  THS.  6 1 

two  school-boys  whom  I  had  seen  on  the  Brocken.  One  was 
from  Berlin,  and  the  other  from  Magdeburg ;  they  had  during 
the  vacation  fluttered  about  the  wide  world  and  enjoyed 
the  romantic  scenery. 

We  also  met  a  trooper  on  the  high-road,  who  looked  as 
if  he  had  just  sprung  forth  alive  from  some  robber  story ; 
but  he  did  nothing  to  us,  as  he  found  we  were  so  strong  a 
body  !  —  nor  did  we  do  anything  to  him,  so  that  politeness  was 
preserved. 

We  soon  saw  the  black  iron  cross  on  the  cliff  above  us, 
whence,  as  the  legend  says,  a  young  girl  threw  herself  when 
her  princely  lover  pursued  her  ;  yet  she  did  not  meet  her 
death  here,  for  God  caused  the  wind  to  bear  her  gently  down 
where  the  wild  brambles  grow  between  the  rocks.  Whether 
the  place  takes  its  name,  Magdesprung,^  from  this  legend  or 
not,  I  cannot  say.  Ottomar  tells  us  that  two  giant  girls  played 
here  on  the  steep  ridge  of  the  mountain  ;  the  one  hopped 
over  the  great  abyss  where  the  road  now  passes,  but  the  other 
thought  that  such  a  jump  required  some  consideration  :  she 
tarried  awhile,  but  then  made  the  spring,  so  that  there  was 
the  impress  of  her  foot  in  the  stone  she  stood  on.  A  peasant, 
ploughing  in  the  valley,  saw  it,  and  laughed  at  the  great  lady ; 
when  she  took  him  up  in  her  apron,  together  with  his  oxen 
and  plough,  and  carried  him  home  with  her  to  the  mountain. 

It  is  not  alone  the  immense  masses  of  rock  with  their 
forests,  which  exceed  the  range  of  vision,  the  tall  bushes 
that  bent  over  the  foaming  river,  nor  the  dead  stone  masses 
of  a  half-ruined  building,  that  make  a  country  romantic ; 
it  is  when  the  place  has,  by  this  its  particular  character,  one 
oi  other  legend  connected  with  it,  that  the  whole  gets  its 
perfect  magic  light,  which  raises  it  in  the  mind's  eye.  The 
dead  masses  then  become  animated  ;  it  is  no  longer  an  empty 
decoration  ;  there  is  action.  Every  leaf,  every  flower  then 
stands  as  a  speaking  bird,  and  the  well  as  a  singing  fountain, 
which  strikes  its  eternally  murmuring  chords  to  the  spirit's 
melodrama. 

The  country  round  about  became  doubly  beautiful  to  me 
on  account  of  its  legend  ;  there  was  likewise  life  and  motion 

1  The  Maiden's  Leap. 


62  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

on  the  road.  We  met  some  charcoal-burners  with  dark, 
characteristic  faces,  and  peasant  girls  who  looked  like  milk 
and  blood.  The  river  Silke  rushed  noisily  past ;  it  certainly 
related  what  we  saw  so  well  that  the  whole  was  very  agree- 
able. 

We  soon  heard  the  noise  of  the  numerous  workshops.  We 
ascended  to  that  remarkable  iron  obelisk  which  the  Duke 
of  Brunswick  erected,  in  1812,  to  his  deceased  father's  mem- 
ory. It  is  entirely  of  iron,  and  is  said  to  be  the  highest  in 
all  Germany.  We  wrote  our  names  on  it  with  pencil,  as  many 
others  had  done  before  us. 

"To  become  immortal,"  is  a  thought  which,  even  in  the 
most  childish,  shines  forth  from  the  poor  human  breast ! 

The  rain  and  snow  will  soon  obliterate  these  pencil  marks 
of  immortality,  and  a  new  race  will  write  their  names  instead, 
till  the  obelisk  itself  be  obliterated  by  time.  Thus  we  also 
seek,  through  life's  pilgrimage,  to  write  our  names  on  the 
world's  great  obelisk,  where  the  one  name  must  make  way 
for  the  other,  until  this  great  writing-slate  itself  goes  to 
rubbish.  God  knows  what  name  will  stand  as  the  last ! 
Probably  the  architect's,  who  raised  it  to  his  own  honor,  and 
the  improvement  of  the  whole. 

No  guests  had  yet  arrived  at  Alexis  Baths,  as  they  gener- 
ally make  their  first  appearance  in  the  warm  summer  months. 
The  well  here  was  in  a  temple-shaped  building,  into  which 
one  descended  by  a  flight  of  broad  stairs.  There  sat  a  young 
girl  with  her  clay  pitcher  —  she  was  Rachel  at  the  well  :  and 
the  man  who  handed  us  the  water  was  what  we  in  Denmark 
call  a  long  Laban.  The  school-boys  and  I  stood  like  thirsty 
camels,  tired  with  the  day's  heat  and  wandering,  so  that  we 
altogether  formed  a  complete  Biblical  picture. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PICTURES    ON    WANDERING   TO    EISLEBEN.  MARTIN    LUTHER. 

TO  be  in  a  strange  haste  with  everything,  is,  in  reality, 
my  chief  characteristic  !  The  more  interesting  a  book  is, 
the  more  do  I  hasten  to  read  it  through,  that  I  may  at  once 
get  the  whole  impression  of  it:  even  in  my  travels  it  is  not 
that  which  is  present  that  pleases  me ;  I  hasten  after  some- 
thing new,  in  order  to  come  to  something  else.  Every  night 
when  I  lie  down  to  rest,  I  hanker  after  the  next  day,  wish 
that  it  was  here,  and,  when  it  comes,  it  is  still  a  distant 
future  that  occupies  me.  Death  itself  has  in  it  something 
interesting  to  me  —  something  glorious,  because  a  new  world 
will  then  be  opened  to  me.  What  can  it  in  reality  be  that 
my  uneasy  self  hastens  after  ? 

Fresh  with  life,  and  glorious,  stood  Nature's  vernal  green 
around  us,  and  breathed  gladness  and  quiet,  whilst  there  lay, 
as  it  were,  a  dark  veil  over  my  heart  ;  yet,  thought  I,  why 
envy  the  fresh  variegated  flowers  ?  Let  them  exhale  their 
perfume,  they  will  in  a  few  months  be  withered  :  the  well  that 
now  bubbles  so  merrily,  passes  away  into  the  sea  ;  and  the 
sea  itself,  that  swells  so  in  its  greatness,  will  evaporate.  Let 
the  sun  play  with  his  hot  beams  ;  he  also,  —  the  heavens,  — 
will  grow  old  as  a  garment,  when  my  heart,  which  now  melts 
with  sadness  over  its  own  dreams,  will  exult  in  its  ascending 
flight  toward  infinity  ! 

This  morning  I  had  no  quiet  in  my  mind.  I  left  Hartz- 
gerode,  —  one  picture  made  way  for  another.  One  of  them 
will  certainly  appear  very  insignificant  to  many,  and  yet  it 
stands  just  as  lively  before  me  as  the  view  from  the  Brocken 
and  Rosztrappe  —  nay  almost  more  so  —  and  it  was  about 
four  miles  ^  from  this  latter  place. 

^  The  distaricei  are  here  given  in  English  miles.  —  Translator. 


64  RAMBLES  IN   THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

At  Klaus,  a  little  hamlet  which  consists  of,  I  believe,  three 
or  four  houses,  I  went  into  the  inn,  one  of  the  three  or  four. 
Everything  here  was  exceedingly  picturesque,  but  yet  quite  of 
the  Dutch  school,  so  much  so  that  I  would  rather  have  wished 
to  see  it  on  the  canvas.  A  young  kitten  rolled  itself  about 
before  my  legs  ;  two  cock  chickens  were  fighting  on  the  floor  ; 
and  the  servant  girl  —  who  was  very  pretty,  dressed  in  full  peas- 
ant's costume  and  full  of  ruddy  health  —  reached  me  a  glass 
of  milk  with  supreme  indifference,  as  though  she  were  perform- 
ing an  act  of  charity  ;  and  then  heeded  me  so  little,  that  she 
stepped  up  to  the  glass  and  made  her  toilet,  loosened  her  long 
hair,  and  let  it  fall  down  over  her  shoulders  and  back.  I  see 
this  picture  still,  and  wish  that  you,  dear  reader,  could  see  it 
too,  for  it  was  not  so  bad. 

I  went  on  for  one,  two,  three  hours,  without  meeting  a  soul. 
Sometimes  the  road  was  as  broad  as  ten  others  :  sometimes 
so  narrow  that  only  one  wagon  could  go  upon  it.  I  began  to 
be  quite  bewildered,  and  therefore  asked  two  respectable-look- 
ing beeches,  that  seemed  to  look  like  fellow-countrymen,  about 
the  way,  but  they  only  shook  their  tops,  and  knew  nothing 
about  it. 

The  path  led  me  to  a  little  village,  where,  on  a  great  open 
space  before  a  house,  there  was  dancing  and  merriment.  The 
dancers  were  young  half-grown  girls,  who  waltzed  with  each 
other  to  the  tones  of  a  violin,  played  by  an  old  bow-legged 
Orpheus.  The  mothers,  and  all  the  oldest  women  of  the  place, 
sat  on  benches  round  about,  their  hands  resting  on  their  laps, 
and  looking  at  the  dancers  without  noticing  the  stranger  who 
stood  close  by.  The  eldest  there,  with  a  little  black  cap  on 
her  gray  hair,  thought  perhaps  of  her  blooming  youth,  when 
she  also  jumped  about  to  the  violin  under  the  blue  sky.  Now 
these  springings  were  past ;  yes,  the  best  dancer  probably  died 
long  ago,  and  sleeps  under  the  cool  turf. 

But  picture  after  picture  tires ;  even  the  child  becomes 
wearied  of  turning  over  the  most  varied  picture-book,  there- 
fore we  will  not  for  the  present  look  at  more,  although  the 
next  was  extremely  interesting.  I  should  like  to  describe  the 
pictm-esque  town  of  Leimbach,  which  lay  close  by  in  the  valley, 
almost  enveloped  in  smoke,  and  hid  behind  the  high  banks  of 


PJCTURES  ON  WANDERING    TO  EISLEBEN.         65 

black  dross.  I  should  like  to  show  the  steep  ravine  which  al- 
most went  precipitously  down  toward  the  church-tower,  yet 
where,  however^  a  large  carrier's  wagon  with  four  horses  was 
toiling  slowly  upward  ;  but  as  I  have  said,  it  might  be  tedious. 
This  time  I  will  relate  my  story  quite  in  the  common  way,  that 
the  reader  and  I  may  both  rest  ourselves. 

"  Leimbach  is  an  open  middling  town  with  about  seven  hun- 
dred inhabitants,  smelting  furnaces,  silver  refiners,  town-hall," 
etc.  etc. 

We  will  take  the  next  place  in  the  same  way  —  it  is  very  con- 
venient !  "  Mansfeldt,  half  a  mile  from  Leimbach,  has  above  six- 
teen hundred  inhabitants  and  an  inn  :  '  Zum  Braunen  Hirsch  ' 
(The  Brown  Stag)." 

Now  I  have  rested  !  I  know  not  if  the  reader  has.  We  are, 
however,  near  Eisleben. 

Here,  the  high  green  hills  between, 

The  little  town  arises  proud. 
The  sun  now  casts  his  brightest  sheen 

Athwart  yon  brown-tinged  summer  cloud ; 
It  shines  upon  the  lofty  spire. 

While  the  bells  ring  clear  and  strong, 
And  in  the  street,  in  best  attire, 

The  people  stand,  a  silent  throng. 
The  monks  with  song,  and  flag  unfurled, 

March  through  the  town  with  solemn  pace  ; 
Stern  censors  of  their  little  world  : 

Is't  fast  or  festival  they  grace  ? 
See  yonder  men  on  prancing  steeds, 

The  Bishop  and  the  Duke  are  they  ; 
Famed  far  and  near  for  noble  deeds. 

And  they're  the  townsmen's  guests  to-day. 
On  the  ramparts,  there  they  throng, 

By  the  gate,  a  motley  crowd 
Of  men  and  women,  old  and  young, 

Who  stand,  or  sit,  or  talk  aloud. 
See,  a  miner  quiet  stands, 

With  his  wife,  the  crowd  among  ; 
Their  little  boy  holds  by  their  hands. 

His  flaxen  hair  is  fine  and  long. 
In  mute  surprise  to  see  their  lord. 

His  eyes  are  fixed,  with  childish  stare  ; 
The  bishop's  robe,  and  Prince's  sword, 

Please  him  most  of  all  things  there. 
5 


66  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

The  boy  stands  bound,  as  by  a  spell, 

His  thoughts  now  hither,  thither  flee. 
Those  who  beyond  the  mountain  dwell 

Here  have  come,  this  sight  to  see, 

Here,  the  high  green  hills  between, 

The  little  town  arises  proud  ; 
The  sun  now  casts  his  brightest  sheen, 

Athwart  yon  brown-tinged  summer  cloud  ; 
It  shines  upon  the  lofty  spire  ; 

But  all  is  silent  now,  and  drear, 
No  Bishop,  Duke,  nor  lordly  squire, 

Makes  his  stately  entry  here. 
How  strangely  doth  the  fancy  grant 

Images  that  woo  belief ! 
What  here  do  I  or  others  want  ?  — 

Is't  to  see  the  princely  chief? 
The  Bishop's  robe,  and  Prince's  sword, 

In  rot  and  rust  have  passed  away ; 
And  we  who  journeyed  hitherward, 

See  but  a  desert  place  to-day. 
Narrow  is  the  little  street, 

'Tis  silent,  as  if  all  were  dead : 
Here,  where  trod  the  miner's  feet, 

His  little  son  was  born  and  bred. 
Duke  and  Bishop  are  forgot. 

The  ramparts  are  a  heap  of  clay  j 
Yet  everything  around  this  spot 

Recalls  to  mind  that  glorious  day. 

The  town  had  in  it  something  extremely  pleasing.  A  little 
boy  played  outside  the  old  church,  and  drew  figures  on 
the  large  stones  ;  perhaps  they  were  also  Luther's  writing- 
slates,  when  he  played  here.  The  town-hall  has  an  angular, 
gloomy  appearance,  like  the  age  in  which  he  lived  ;  it  was  prob- 
ably the  same  in  his  time,  as  now.  The  house  where  he  was 
born  has,  on  the  contrary,  undergone  great  changes  since  then. 
It  is  now  used  as  a  school.  On  a  window  of  painted  glass, 
stand  Luther  and  Melancthon  ;  and  over  the  door,  around  an 
illuminated  bass-relief,  with  Luther's  portrait,  we  read,  — 

"  Gottes  werck  es  Luthers  Lehr, 
Darum  weyht  sie  nimmer  mehr  ! "  ^ 

1  These  are  what  Luther  taught  —  God's  works  and  word ; 
Therefore  his  doctrine  lives,  as  doth  the  Lord. 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  67 

There  stood  an  old  peasant,  with  his  wife,  in  the  street ;  he 
spelt  the  verse  for  her,  and  I  could  see  on  their  faces  what  a 
mass  of  deep  and  glorious  poesy  there  was  for  them  in  every 
word,  for  their  looks  cleared  up  surprisingly;  and  when  he 
uttered  the  last  word,  it  was  as  if  he  had  spoken  the  revelation 
of  an  angel,  and  they  believed  it. 

"  Luther  !  "  says  Jean  Paul,  "  thou  resemblest  the  fall  of  the 
Rhine  !  How  mightily  dost  thou  storm  and  thunder.  But  as 
the  rainbow  hovers  immovably  on  its  stream,  so  rests  also  the 
bow  of  grace,  peace  with  God  and  man,  in  thy  breast :  thou 
shakest  only  thy  earth,  but  not  thy  heaven  !  " 

This  is  poetically  fine  ;  but  yet  there  lay  something  in  the 
tone  and  the  expression  with  which  the  old  man  said  to  his 
wife,  of  Luther,  "  That  was  a  man  !  "  — something  far  greater, 
more  just  and  sublime.  I  believe  that  Jean  Paul  himself 
would  have  said  the  same  thing  if  he  had  heard  the  old  man. 

Luther! — '■'■That  ivas  a  man  I"  —  therefore  he  broke  the 
yoke  of  popedom,  and  therefore  he  sang,  — 

"  Wer  nicht  liebt  Wein,  Weiber  und  Gesang, 
Der  bleibt  ein  Narr  sein  Leben  lang  !  "  1 

Therefore  he  threw  the  inkstand  at  the  head  of  the  Prince  of 
Darkness  ;  for,  as  a  German  poet  (I  think  it  is  Borne)  says : 
"  Writing-ink  and  printing-ink  are  the  best  weapons  to  use 
against  the  Devil ;  they  will  in  time  chase  him  entirely  from 
the  world." 

^  He  who  loves  not  wine,  women,  and  song, 
Will  be  a  fool  his  whole  life  long. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  JOURNEY  THROUGH   HALLE  AND    MERSEBURG   TO   LEIPSIC.  — 

THE    BLIND   MOTHER.  —  ST.    NICHOLAS  CHURCH. GELLERT'S 

GRAVE. AUERBACH  CELLAR. 

IT  was  midnight  when  I  rolled  out  of  old  Eisleben  —  in  the 
Saxon,  "  Eilwagen,"  the  quick  post.  The  first  green 
vine  hills  greeted  me  with  the  rising  sun.  The  postilion 
played  one  fine  piece  after  another.  We  passed  two  large 
lakes,  and  the  green  mountains  and  the  red  clouds  were  re- 
flected on  their  quiet  surface.  There  stood,  also,  an  old  baronial 
castle,  with  angles  and  towers,  high  walls,  and  ditches.  Here 
was  a  glorious  echo  :  we  halted  for  a  moment ;  the  postilion 
blew  his  horn,  and  the  mountains  reechoed  almost  the  whole 
piece.  I  have  never  heard  so  many  tones  repeated  by  an 
echo,  nor  shall  I  ever  forget  that  beautiful  morning ;  but 
then  it  is  set  to  music  in  my  memory's  picture-gallery.  The 
postilion  and  the  echo  gave  to  the  whole  neighborhood  a 
higher  sense  of  beauty,  whereby  it  is  probable  that  the  learned 
city  of  Halle  afterward  lost  in  my  estimation — it  appeared 
to  me  so  narrow,  so  uncomfortable.  The  river  Saale  was  a 
dirty  yellow  water ;  and  the  streets,  —  some,  at  least,  —  I 
think,  were  not  paved. 

The  road  to  Merseburg  was  planted  with  cherry-trees ;  the 
town  itself  is  dark  and  narrow,  like  Halle,  but  yet  worth  a 
visit,  on  account  of  its  old  Gothic  cathedral. 

They  told  me  a  popular  tradition  here  —  quite  a  history 
å  la  "  Gazza  Ladra."  A  bishop  had  caused  an  innocent 
servant  of  his  to  be  executed  ;  but  as  he  afterward  discov- 
ered that  a  favorite  raven  was  the  thief,  he  became  melan- 
choly, had  the  bird  imprisoned  in  an  iron  cage,  and  exposed 
to  mockery  and  abuse.  Nay,  he  even  invested  a  sum  of 
money,  that  the  Council  of  Merseburg  should  forever  be  in 


THE  BLIND  MOTHER.  (iC^ 

possession  of  a  raven,  and  that  it  should  be  taught  to  cry 
out  the  servant's  name,  "  Jacob  !  "  So  that,  as  soon  as  a  raven 
dies,  it  happens,  as  it  does  on  the  death  of  a  pope  —  a  council 
is  immediately  convened,  and  another  chosen. 

I  was  told,  though  I  could  not  find  it,  that  such  a  poor 
innocent  bird  was  then  sitting  imprisoned,  and  cried  "  Jacob  !  " 
without  dreaming  why  it  had  free  board  and  lodging,  and, 
perhaps,  without  being  related  to  the  episcopal  thief  to  whose 
infamous  memory  the  legacy  was  founded. 

We  now  left  the  town  of  Merseburg  for  the  German  library, 
Leipsic.  The  country  round  about  looked  quite  Danish  ;  here 
was  still  a  woody  district;  afterward  everything  was  lost  in 
an  immense  plain,  which  human  blood  has  terribly  immor- 
talized. 

THE  BLIND  MOTHER. 

"  The  drum  is  beating,  they  are  near  ! 

The  banners  whistle  in  tlie  breeze." 
"  Mother,  'tis  the  wind  that  here 

Rushes  through  the  forest  trees." 
"  Hearest  thou  not  the  horses'  tread  ? 

The  wagons  follow  close  each  other." 
"  The  road  it  passes  through  this  mead  ; 

They're  travellers  thou  hear'st,  my  mother !  " 

"  Silence,  child  !  they  near  our  post : 

'Tis  not  the  trees  i'  the  wind  that  mourn. 
Seest  thou  not  the  imperial  host  ? 

Thy  father's  pennon 's  proudly  borne. 
No,  'tis  not  the  night's  harsh  blast, 

Nor  stranger  men  that  travel ;  for 
On  his  steed,  before  his  host, 

There  rides  the  mighty  Emperor ! 

"  Before  my  eyes  'tis  dark  and  dreary, 

But  yet  I  know  him  in  the  gloom  ; 
Child,  I  feel  myself  so  weary,  — 

Fold  my  old  hands  for  the  tomb  ! 
The  banner  whistles  in  the  breeze, 

Mildly  thy  father  beckons  now  ; 
O  set  me,  child,  by  yonder  trees, 

For  death,  I  feel,  is  on  my  brow  !  " 

It  was  a  strange  feeling  that  seized  me  as  I  drove  over 
the   great,  extended   plain   of  Leipsic,  where   every   village 


70  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

is  so  remarkable  in  the  history  of  the  wars.  Here  Napoleon 
had  been  —  here  that  great  General  had  thought  and  felt. 
The  corn  waved  luxuriantly  over  the  immense  battle-field ; 
no  wound  heals  so  easily  as  that  of  Nature's.  One  spring 
alone  is  sufficient  to  adorn  the  oldest  ruins  with  flowers  and 
verdure. 

Some  laborers  were  making  a  new  road :  I  saw  human 
bones  and  bullets  found  in  digging.  There  sat  an  old  man 
under  a  tree,  with  a  wooden  leg  ;  he  had  certainly  seen  a 
little  more  here  than  the  corn  that  now  waved  before  him 
—  heard  a  louder  song  than  that  which  the  birds  warbled  on 
the  branches  above  him  :  he  was  now  resting  here,  with  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  thinking  of  old  times. 

Leipsic  itself  made  an  agreeable  impression  on  me ;  it  is  a 
large  and  pleasant  city.  There  are  two  or  three  book-sellers 
in  every  street ;  everywhere  were  to  be  seen  book-cases  filled 
with  volumes  ;  and,  in  the  large  bright  glass  windows,  engrav- 
ings and  pictures  innumerable.  Students,  with  long  pipes  in 
their  mouths,  and  books  under  their  arms,  were  to  be  seen 
running  about  in  the  streets ;  some  had  their  original  German 
costume  —  large  white  trousers,  short  frock  coats,  and  long 
locks  hanging  down  over  their  white  collars. 

I  visited  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas,  where  there  are  some 
paintings  by  Oeser.  They  showed  us  an  old  pulpit,  in  a  little 
closet  here,  in  which  Luther  is  said  to  have  preached ;  I  stood 
on  my  toes  to  reach  up,  that  I  might  lay  my  hands  where  he 
had  laid  his. 

From  the  old  church,  I  wandered  out  of  the  town,  to  Gel- 
lert's  grave.  A  flat,  plain  stone,  with  his  name  and  the  year 
of  his  death,  lay  above  it.  By  the  side  was  planted  a  rose- 
tree,  and  round  about  stood  a  low  paling,  where  the  many 
who  had  visited  the  poet's  grave  had  written  and  cut  their 
names ;   I  followed   the  example,  and  wrote  mine. 

Round  about  were  many  finer  ornamented  tombs,  which 
certainly  contained  persons  of  far  greater  distinction  than 
Gellert,  but  no  strange  hand  had  written  its  memorial  there  : 
even  the  iron-railed  chapels  around  looked  merely  as  a  wall 
that  served  to  inclose  the  simple  poet's  grave.  Here  the 
poet  was  the  greatest ;  by  his  death,  this  place  had  acquired 


AUERBACH  CELLAR. 


71 


an  interest.  The  Duke  of  Weimar  has  determined  that 
Goethe's  and  Schiller's  bodies  shall  stand  in  the  royal  chapel, 
on  each  side  of  his  ;  thus,  a  man  may  have  a  rainbow  over 
him,  when  his  body  stands  between  the  sun  and  the  foam- 
ing cataract. 

The  other  fresh  graves  were  strangely  ornamented  :  besides 
flowers  and  wreaths,  they  had  placed  on  them  oranges  and 
lemons,  some  of  which  were  cut  in  pieces.  Long  ribbons, 
with  gold  and  silver  fringes,  fluttered  about,  so  that,  when  all 
this  finery  was  a  little  old,  it  made  an  ugly  appearance.  Verses 
were,  in  general,  printed  on  the  ribbons,  some  home-made, 
some  chosen  from  the  works  of  celebrated  poets ;  thus,  I 
found  on  one,  Holty's  :  — 

"Heute  hiipft  im  Friihlings-Tanz, 
Noch  der  frohe  Knabe, 
Morgen  weht  der  Todtenkranz 
Schon  auf  seinem  Grabe  !  "  1 

I  think  that  a  grave,  ornamented  with  a  single  wreath,  is 
pretty  and  significant.  The  carpenter  sets  his  wreath,  with 
ribbons  and  gilt  papers,  on  the  roof  of  the  house,  when  the 
whole  building  is  erected  ;  ^  why  should  we  not,  then,  like  him, 
also  place  a  wreath  here  ?  the  grave  is  the  roof  over  our 
earthly  life's  building,  and  when  it  is  first  smoothed  by  the 
sexton,  the  mansion  is  perfect.     » 

As  I  wandered  through  the  streets,  alone,  in  the  evening, 
to  find  the  Hotel  de  Baviere,  I  lost  my  way  in  this  strange 
town,  and  lighted  upon  the  "  Auerbacher-Keller,"  which  is 
remarkable  from  its  connection  with  Dr.  Faust,  who,  as  the 
legend  states,  flew  out  of  a  window  here,  riding  on  a  wine- 
cask.  I  went  down,  that  I  might  say  I  had  been  in  that  fa- 
mous room  where  this  event  is  said  to  have  taken  place.  It 
was  very  small,,  and  had  but  one  window,  through  which  Faust 

^  "  To-day  the  boy,  so  blithe  and  brave, 
Gambols  in  childish  glee  ; 
To-morrow  o'er  his  silent  grave 
The  waving  death-wreath  see  !  " 

.  2  Such  is  the  custom  in  Denmark,  when  the  workmen  generally  pass  the 
evening  in  the  new  house,  with  music,  dance,  and  song.  —  Translator. 


72  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

rode.  The  whole  story  was  painted  on  the  canvas  of  the 
walls,  only  it  is  a  pity  the  figures  were  so  dark  and  indistinct. 

Here  sat  three  old  fellows  in  a  deep  dispute  ;  I  think  it  was 
about  the  impossibility  of  a  triangle  being  in  fact  half  a 
square  ;  it  appeared  as  if  they  would  fly  much  further,  with 
the  fumes  of  the  wine,  than  out  of  the  window.  At  last,  they 
began  to  sing  like  Frosch  and  Brander  in  Goethe's  "  Faust," 
"  Es  var  erne  Ratf  in  Kellernest  f''  —  that  is,  they  did  not  pre- 
cisely sing  this,  but  the  situation  was  the  same  ;  so  that  I 
every  moment  peeped  toward  the  door,  to  see  if  Mephis- 
topheles  were  not  coming  with  the  Doctor. 

I  went  to  Reichenbach's  garden,  to  see  the  place  where 
Poniatowsky  found  a  watery  grave  in  the  river  Elster.  The 
owner,  a  rich  merchant,  takes  payment  from  those  who  wish 
to  see  the  place. 

Here,  between  these  high  trees,  rushed  the  wounded  hero, 
pursued  by  superior  numbers.  It  is  almost  incredible  that 
any  one  could  drown  in  this  insignificant  narrow  water  !  A 
weeping-willow  was  planted  on  the  spot  whence  he  sprang 
with  his  horse  ;  and  a  few  paces  further,  where  they  had  found 
his  body,  stood  a  small  plain  column,  which  was  covered  with 
names,  particularly  those  of  his  countrymen. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    DEPARTURE. MEISSEN. THE    FIRST    DAY  IN    DRESDEN. 

DAHL   AND    TIECK. 

AFTER  a  stay  of  three  days  I  left  the  friendly  city  of 
Leipsic,  where  I  had  made  acquaintance  with  several 
excellent  men. 

We  passed  the  hunting  palace  of  Hubertsburg,  with  its 
large  gardens,  in  the  gloom  of  evening.  Mengs'  pencil,  it  is 
said,  attracts  many  to  the  palace  chapel.  We  had  no  time, 
nor  did  we  want  pictures  ;  for  one  gave  place  to  the  other 
when  we  looked  through  the  open  window  of  the  carriage. 
Here  was  an  inn,  with  travellers :  the  ostler  stood  in  the  door- 
way with  his  large  lantern  ;  this  was  a  night-scene,  —  a  style 
which  Rembrandt  is  said  to  have  done  justice  to.  Now  we 
saw  a  swampy  meadow  in  the  morning  light  ;  a  few  wild  ducks 
splashed  amongst  the  green  rushes,  —  a  style  Ruysdael  has 
imitated.  There  lay  a  hamlet,  with  a  half  broken-down  wall  ; 
in  the  foreground,  under  a  large  tree,  sat  a  couple  of  young 
folks,  and  kissed  each  other  —  that  was  a  style  I  myself  would 
like  to  imitate. 

As  we  approached  Meissen  the  country  assumed  a  more 
romantic  character.  Rocks  began  to  show  themselves,  and 
they  had  quite  another  appearance  than  those  in  the  Hartz. 
They  hung  over  our  heads  in  reddish-yellow  masses,  and  were 
overgrown  with  young  beeches  ;  on  the  other  side  of  the  road 
lay  the  green  vine  hills,  with  their  red-roofed  houses  ;  and 
below  was  the  Elbe,  winding  in  picturesque  curves.  Vessels 
were  towed  up  the  river  with  horses  and  men,  whilst  others 
rushed  down  the  stream  with  swelling  sail. 

Meissen  itself  has  narrow  streets,  and  to  me  appeared  an 
uncomfortable  town :  one  must  manage  with  it,  as  with  every 
other  charming  picture,  not  bring  the  eye  too  close  to  it,  but 
rescard  the  whole  at  a  distance. 


74  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

The  cathedral  is  a  fine  Gothic  building :  the  sun  shone  in 
through  the  high  windows,  and  a  little  bird,  that  had  come  in, 
flapped  and  beat  its  wings  against  the  panes  to  get  out.  It  was 
the  world  of  my  own  childhood  that  I  saw  !  Childhood  also 
is  such  a  holy  Gothic  church,  where  the  sun  shines  sweetly 
through  the  variegated  windows,  where  every  gloomj^  nook 
awakens  a  powerfijl  feeling,  and  where  the  simplest  images, 
from  its  light  and  legend,  have  a  far  deeper  signification  ! 
Every-day  life  shows  itself  in  childhood  in  its  Sunday  clothes  ; 
God  and  the  world  lie  much  nearer  to  each  other,  and  yet  the 
heart  beats  and  flutters,  like  the  little  bird  here  in  the  church, 
after  the  new  future  without,  where,  perhaps,  the  hunter  waits 
behind  the  bush  to  fire  a  shot  through  its  wings. 

The  road  from  Meissen  to  Dresden  is  planted  with  Egyp- 
tian thorn  and  pear-trees ;  the  fields  are  covered  with  cabbages 
and  potatoes  :  it  is  a  complete  kitchen-garden !  Charming 
vine  hills  and  leafy  woods  lie  on  both  sides  and  behind. 
Meissen  itself,  which  lies  high,  forms,  with  its  palace  and  its 
Gothic  cathedral,  the  finest  point  in  the  whole  picture.  A 
stone  bridge  rises  over  the  Elbe,  below  the  town,  where  people 
drive  and  walk,  without  thinking,  much  less  priding  themselves, 
on  the  life  they  thereby  give  to  the  whole. 

The  farther  we  recede  from  here,  the  higher  do  the  moun- 
tains become  ;  and  we  soon  see,  as  through  a  bluish  veil,  the 
German  Florence.  Dresden  lies  before  us,  with  its  high  tow- 
ers and  cupolas. 

When  I  reached  Augustus  Bridge,  which  I  knew  so  well 
from  engravings,  it  appeared  to  me  as  if  I  had,  in  a  dream, 
been  here  once  before.  The  Elbe  poured  its  yellow  waves 
under  the  proud  arches  ;  there  w-ere  life  and  bustle  on  the 
river,  but  still  more  on  the  bridge ;  carriages  and  horsemen 
went*  rapidly  over  it,  and  on  both  sides  there  was  a  great 
variety  of  foot-passengers.  About  the  middle  of  the  river, 
on  one  of  the  piers  which  form  the  single  arches,  stood  a 
Christ  on  the  Cross  ;  I  think  it  is  of  bronze.  We  now  came  to 
Alstadt  (the  old  city)  or  Dresden  Proper  ;  the  Briihlian  ter- 
races, with  their  broad  stairs,  lay  to  the  left,  and  the  Catholic 
church,  with  its  towers,  to  the  right ;  and  in  the  centre  the 
gate,  through  which  we  entered  the  city  itself 


THE  FIRST  DAY  IN  DRESDEN.  75 

Dresden  appeared  to  me  to  be  the  point  of  transition  be- 
tween North  and  South  Germany,  and  it  has  also  a  mixed 
character  of  both  \  it  was  the  last  great  city  T  should  see  in 
Germany  toward  the  south,  so  that  it  was  with  a  feeling  of 
sadness  that  I  entered  this  dear  Dresden. 

There  was  something  in  the  city  that  at  once  attached  me 
to  it,  and  I  felt  myself  at  home  directly.  My  first  visit  was 
to  our  celebrated  landscape-painter,  Dahl.^  I  had  no  letter 
of  introduction  to  him,  but,  as  a  Dane,  I  was  extremely  wel- 
come. How  much  interest  did  he  not  show,  and  how  much 
sacrifice  of  time  did  he  not  make  for  me  and  his  countrymen, 
who  were  there  at  the  same  time  as  myself!  In  the  evening 
he  was  going  with  two  Norwegians  to  visit  Tieck,  for  the  great 
poet  was  on  that  evening  to  read  to  a  party  of  friends.  Hav- 
ing a  letter  of  introduction  to  him  from  Ingemann,^  and  hav- 
ing besides  previously  written  to  the  poet,  Dahl  invited  me  to 
accompany  him,  but  at  the  same  time  begged  me  not  to  waste 
my  time  with  him  then,  but  to  go  to  the  Catholic  church,  as 
on  that  day  it  was  the  festival  of  Corpus  Christi. 

I  soon  found  the  way  over  the  Briihlian  terraces,  which 
were  crowded  with  promenaders :  it  was  beautiful  to  see  the 
great  Augustus  Bridge,  with  its  throng  of  passengers,  the  Elbe, 
with  its  vessels,  and  the  green  vine  hills  along  it ;  but  I  had 
no  time  to  stay. 

Now  I  stood  in  the  Catholic  church.  How  vast  and  light ! 
The  music-choir  resounded  over  my  head  ;  lights  burnt  on  all 
the  altars,  and  people  knelt  in  the  side  chapels  and  the  vast 
aisles.  The  royal  family  were  present,  and  the  king  appeared 
to  pray  with  much  zeal.  Three  priests,  in  robes  of  gold  tissue, 
stood  by  the  altar;  and  as  many  boys  in  red  mantles,  with 
a  short  white  surplice  above,  swung  the  censer.  There  was 
a  continual  movement  at  the  high  altar,  which  disturbed  the 
impression  the  whole  ceremony  would  otherwise  have  made 

1  Dahl  is  a  Norwegian,  residing  in  Dresden,  where  he  is  Professor  of 
Painting  in  the  academy.  —  Translator. 

■^  Ingemann  is  a  Danish  author,  who  has  acquired  some  celebrity  as  a 
poet,  but  more  particularly  as  a  novelist ;  his  writings  are  chiefly  histor- 
ical, of  which  the  majority  have  been  translated  into  German.  His 
"  Waldemar  Seier,"  and  "  Kong  Erik  og  de  Fredlose,"  have  also  been 
translated  into  English,  by  Miss  Jane  Frances  Chapman.  —  Translator. 


76  RAMBLES  IN   THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

on  me.  The  singing  boys  came  and  went  with  large  lighted 
tapers,  and  the  priests  bowed  every  moment  and  rung  their 
silver  bells.  The  attendants  of  the  church,  in  yellow  clothes, 
with  large  silver  sticks  in  their  hands,  went  up  and  down  the 
aisles  to  keep  order,  and  to  take  care  that  the  goats  were  sep- 
arated from  the  sheep.  People  came  and  went,  but  all  passed 
in  silence.  I  saw  Bohemian  women  and  girls,  who  had  cer- 
tainly been  at  market  with  their  wares  ;  they  came  into  the 
church  with  their  baskets  or  bundles,  knelt  down  in  the  aisles, 
counted  their  beads,  and  then  went  away  in  the  greatest  haste. 
Men  and  women  knelt  in  the  chapels  before  the  image  of  the 
Madonna,  and  in  many  a  face  I  saw  the  most  sincere  piety 
and  adoration.  The  sun  shone  through  the  windows,  and 
united  strangely  with  the  gleam  of  the  many  lights,  and  the 
smoke  of  the  fragrant  incense ;  there  was  a  something  in  the 
whole  that,  together  with  the  flood  of  music,  soon  found  its 
way  to  the  heart. 

At  seven  in  the  evening  I  went,  with  Dahl  and  the  two 
young  Norwegians,  to  visit  the  poet  who  stands  next  to  Goethe 
in  age,  worth,  and  estimation  amongst  his  countrymen — Ger- 
many's Tieck.  The  room  we  were  ushered  into  was  not  large. 
Here  the  family  sat  around  the  tea-table  with  a  number  of 
strangers,  mostly  foreigners.  Dahl  presented  the  two  Norwe- 
gians and  myself  to  him  as  his  countrymen,  and  the  poet  gave 
us  a  hearty  welcome. 

What  expression  was  there  not  in  his  look !  I  have  never 
seen  a  more  open  face.  The  tone  of  his  voice  was  so  good- 
natured  ;  and  when  one  looked  in  his  large  clear  eyes  there 
was  a  feeling  of  confidence  toward  him.  It  was  not  the  poet 
that  I  loved  —  the  man  himself  now  became  dear  to  me  !  He 
was  just  as  I  had  pictured  him  to  myself  when  I  read  his 
"  Elves  ; "  but  my  dreams  have  so  often  proved  false,  that  I 
sometimes  could  not  help  thinking,  "  In  reality  he  is,  perhaps, 
a  stiff  courtier ; "  and  this  would  have  repulsed  me  quite. 
Such  is,  also,  my  conception  of  Goethe,  and  this  overcame  my 
desire  to  see  that  great  poet,  who,  I  imagine,  rises  in  his  full 
grandeur  when  one  sees  him,  like  the  church- towers,  at  a  dis- 
tance. This  is  not  the  case  with  Tieck  ;  if  one  has  been  with 
him  for  half  an  hour,  one  forgets  the  poet  for  the  man. 


DAHL  AND    TIECK.  JJ 

Tieck  is  very  fond  of  Holberg,  whose  works  he  has  in  an 
old  German  translation,  from  which  he  sometimes  reads  aloud 
to  his  friends,  and  that  excellently.  That  evening  I  heard 
him  read  the  second  part  of  Shakespeare's  "  Henry  IV." 
He  does  not  name  the  characters  when  reading,  but  he  plays 
every  part  so  well  that  one  can  tell  directly  who  it  is.  The 
comic  scenes,  in  particular,  he  gave  in  a  masterly  manner ; 
and  it  was  impossible  to  resist  laughing  at  Falstaff  and  Dame 
Quickly. 

When  the  party  broke  up  in  the  evening,  Tieck  invited  me 
to  come  and  see  him  often  during  my  stay  in  Dresden,  and 
prepared  me  for  the  treat  that  was  still  remaining  for  me, 
in  Saxon  Switzerland  and  the  picture-gallery  ;  this  place  was, 
however,  unfortunately  closed,  as  the  paintings  were  being 
arranged  anew,  but  Dahl  promised  to  take  me  next  morning 
where  the  best  things  were  already  hung  up.  I  bade  Tieck 
good-night,  Dahl  put  me  on  the  right  way  homeward,  and  this 
was  my  first  day  in  Dresden. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE     PICTURE-GALLERY. —  "  DAS     GRUNE     GEWOLBE."  —  THE 

ARiMORY.  A    TOUR     TO    SAXON    SWITZERLAND.  PILLNITZ. 

LOHMEN.  OTTOWALDER     GRUND.  BASTEI.  WOLF'S 

GORGE. HOHENSTEIN.  KUHSTALL. 

WITH  Dahl,  our  Danish  Ambassador,  and  the  two  young 
Norwegians,  I  went  to  the  picture-gallery.  In  some 
of  the  rooms  the  paintings  lay  on  the  floor,  but  in  most  of 
them  they  were  already  arranged  and  hung  up.  What  a  mass 
of  works  of  art !  One  picture  superseded  the  other  ;  a  few 
only  remained  in  the  memor}'. 

What  shall  I  say  first  about  the  great  productions  that 
made  the  deepest  impression  on  me  ;  yet,  can  there  be  a  ques- 
tion? Raphael's  "  Madonna  !  "  I  hurried  through  the  rooms 
in  search  of  this  painting,  and  when  I  stood  before  it,  it  did 
not  surprise  me  at  all.  It  appeared  to  me  as  a  friendly  female 
face,  but  not  more  beautiful  than  many  I  had  seen.  Is  this 
the  world's  far-famed  picture  ?  thought  I,  and  wished  to  be 
surprised  on  seeing  it,  but  it  remained  the  same.  It  even  ap- 
peared to  me  that  several  paintings  of  the  Madonna,  several 
female  faces  here  in  the  gallery,  were  far  prettier.  I  returned 
to  them  again,  but  then  the  veil  fell  from  my  eyes  ;  they  now 
appeared  to  me  as  painted  human  faces,  for  I  had  seen  the 
divine  one  itself  I  again  stood  before  her,  and  then  I  first 
felt  the  endless  truth  and  glor}^  in  this  picture.  There  is 
nothing  in  it  that  strikes,  nothing  that  blinds;  but  the  more 
attentively  one  regards  her  and  the  infant  Jesus,  the  more 
divine  do  they  become.  Such  a  superhuman,  child-like  face, 
is  not  found  in  woman,  and  yet  it  is  pure  nature.  It  appeared 
to  me  as  if  every  pious,  innocent  girl's  face  had  some  resem- 
blance to  this,  but  that  this  was  the  ideal  after  which  the  oth- 
ers strove.  Not  love,  but  adoration,  called  forth  that  look. 
It  now  became  intelligible  to  me  how  a  rational  Catholic  can 


THE  PICTURE-GALLERY. 


79 


kneel  to  an  image.  It  is  not  the  colors  on  the  canvas  that 
he  worships,  it  is  the  spirit,  the  divine  spirit  that  reveals  itself 
here  in  a  corporeal  form  to  the  bodily  eye,  whilst  the  powerful 
tones  of  the  organ  peal  above  him  and  chase  away  the  dis- 
cords of  the  soul,  so  that  there  becomes  harmony  between  the 
earthly  and  the  eternal. 

Time  has  paled  the  colors  of  the  painting,  but  yet  all  the 
figures  seem  to  live :  the  great  halo  of  angels'  heads  behind 
develop  themselves  more  and  more,  and  in  the  look  of  the 
infant  Jesus  we  see  the  whole  grand  expression  comprised. 
Such  a  look,  such  a  wise  eye,  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  child  ; 
and  yet  here  it  is  natural  childishness  that  seizes  so  powerfully 
on  us.  And  then  the  angel  children  below ;  they  stand  as 
a  beautiful  type  of  earthly  innocence  ;  the  younger  look  for- 
ward in  childish  calmness,  whilst  the  elder  raise  their  eyes  to 
heavenly  figures  above  them.  This  single  picture  would  make 
the  gallery  famous,  just  as  it  has  been  sufficient  to  make  its 
master  immortal.  There  hung  three  masterpieces  in  this 
room  :  here  was  Correggio's  "  Night,"  a  poetical  idea  charm- 
ingly conceived  and  executed.  The  light  streams  forth  from 
Jesus  and  extends  over  all  the  other  figures  around.  What 
struck  me  most  was,  a  female  figure  holding  her  hand  before 
her  eyes,  and  turning  partly  away  from  the  strong  dazzling 
light.  Most  connoisseurs  place  this  piece  first  amongst  that 
great  master's  works  ;  yet  I  prefer  the  "  St.  Sebastian,"  which 
is  in  the  s  nne  room.  What  a  glorious  group  of  angels  ! 
They  hover  down  on  the  light  clouds  around  the  pious  martyr 
with  his  quiet,  inspired  look.  There  was  still  another  piece 
which  I  dare  call  the  fourth  of  these  divine,  animated  paint- 
ings, "  A  Christ,"  by  Carlo  Dolce :  greatness  and  suffering 
were  blended  together  in  that  noble,  resigned  face. 

I  went  from  room  to  room,  and  saw  that  great  collection  of 
art,  yet  always  returned  to  these  four  treasures  — to  Raphael 's 
"  Madonna,"  and  Correggio's  group  of  angels.  Yet  I  still  pre- 
serve the  impression  of  the  other  glorious  treasures,  from  my 
first  visit  to  the  gallery. 

"  The  Day  of  Judgment,"  painted  by  Rubens,  where  he  has 
introduced  the  portraits  of  his  three  wives,  attracted  me.  Two 
are   angels  rising  to  heaven  ;  the   third,   on   the   contrary,  is 


8o  KAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

dragged  by  devils  down  into  the  deep.  Rubens  himself  sits 
on  his  grave.  No  one  appears  to  notice  him :  he  is  in  deep 
thought ;  he  is  probably  meditating  where  he  is  to  go,  and 
quietly  awaits  his  destiny. 

In  a  painting  by  Bassano,  representing  the  Ark,  it  was  com- 
ical to  see  that  a  sow  was  the  first  animal  that  was  led  in, 
and  thus  got  the  best  place. 

Tired  in  a  spiritual  sense  with  the  enjoyment  of  all  these 
glories,  and  bodily  so  from  so  long  a  stay,  I  left  the  gallery  to 
visit  it  again. 

What  a  change  did  not  every  day  bring  me,  nay,  every  hour, 
in  that  dear  city !  What  a  mass  of  ideas  and  feelings  did 
there  not  flow  through  me  during  the  nine  days  I  jDassed  here  ! 
I  roamed  about  from  morning  till  evening,  and  every  moment 
saw  something  new. 

I  was  advised  to  see  "  Das  griine  Gewolbe,"  the  guide  pro- 
cured me  company,  and  we  then  proceeded  to  the  palace. 
"  Das  griine  Gewolbe  "  is  a  suite  of  rooms  which  are  not  at  all 
green,  and  no  one  knew  rightly  whence  they  had  got  that  name. 
There  were  many  large  tables  of  mosaic  work,  with  flowers  and 
fruit ;  full-length  portraits  of  the  kings  of  Saxony  hung  on  the 
walls  ;  there  were  cups  and  vessels  of  different  kinds,  of  gold 
and  silver,  and  a  whole  chamber  full  of  playthings  of  pearls 
and  precious  stones. 

I  saw  Luther's  ring,  and  whole  cases  full  of  gems  and  jew- 
els, which  lay  here  so  dead  and  insignificant  with  all  their 
lustre,  that  I  almost  began  to  be  in  despair  on  account  of  all 
this  wealth  that  in  no  way  interested  me.  Had  the  walls 
not  been  covered  with  mirrors,  so  that  I  could  by  way  of 
change  see  my  own  face,  with  all  its  tedium  expressed  therein, 
and  thus  amuse  myself  contentedly,  it  would  have  been  bad 
indeed. 

The  armory  amused  me  much  more  than  "  Das  griine 
Gewolbe."  Arms  were  piled  on  arms  in  the  large  chambers. 
Many  a  famed  war-horse  that  had  borne  a  royal  prince  on  its 
back,  stood  here  carved  out  in  wood,  painted  and  caparisoned, 
with  saddle  and  bridle  ;  but  although  the  man  who  showed  us 
about  often  declared  that  it  was  a  Danish  horse  which  the  fig- 
ure represented,  it  affected  me  not  a  whit  the  more.     Wax  fig- 


A    TOUR    TO  SAXON  SWITZERLAND.  8 1 

ures  of  kings  and  knights  stood  like  enchanted  yeomen  round 
about  by  the  doors,  and  stared  at  us  with  their  dead  eyes. 
There  were  whole  closets  filled  with  arrows  and  pistols  :  I  saw 
a  drum  covered  with  human  skin.  There  was  the  armor  that 
Gustavus  Adolphus  had  worn  the  day  before  he  fell  at  Liitzen, 
and  a  saddle  that  Napoleon  had  ridden  on,  with  many  other 
things  "  too  numerous  to  mention  within  the  limits  of  a  bill  of 
entertainment,"  as  the  showman  says. 

The  whole  of  that  night  I  dreamt  of  nothing  but  swords 
and  daggers,  immense  wax  figures,  and  large  wooden  horses, 
so  that  I  had  no  easy  night  of  it. 

I  also  longed  to  see  Saxon  Switzerland ;  the  next  day  was, 
therefore,  fixed  for  that  excursion. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  !  I  went  into  the  Catholic 
church ;  the  tapers  on  the  altar  were  lighted,  and  in  one  of 
the  side  chapels  there  was  a  group  of  sweet  children,  boys 
and  girls,  who  sang  with  childish  voices,  whilst  the  sun  shone 
in  on  the  Madonna's  image.  I  leaned  against  a  pillar,  whilst 
the  song  and  the  organ's  tones  pealed  above  me.  A  poor  old 
man,  clothed  in  rags,  but  with  the  deepest  contrition  in  his  dark, 
rigid  face,  knelt,  deeply  dejected,  in  the  aisle,  as  if  he  had  not 
courage  to  approach  the  altar.  It  was  sincere  repentance  that 
stood  painted  in  his  features  ;  he  looked  toward  the  ground 
and  counted  his  beads  ;  whilst  the  throng  of  children,  piously 
innocent,  sang  their  morning  hymn,  I,  also  in  my  heart,  knelt 
before  my  God.  It  was  to  me  as  if  the  song  and  the  organ's 
tones  melted  together  in  mighty  pictures  of  life  which  glided 
past  me.  If,  now,  the  whole  be  but  a  dream !  thought  I  ;  if, 
now,  I  am  really  at  home  in  Denmark,  sleeping,  and  dreaming 
that  I  am  in  this  foreign  city  between  mountains;  dreaming 
these  organ-tones  and  the  children's  pious  song,  whilst  the 
poor  beggar  kneels  by  my  side  before  the  holy  Mother  !  No, 
I  did  not  dream  it,  and  yet  the  heart  dreamt,  —  it  also  dis- 
solved itself  in  tones  ;  for  the  heart  is  a  world  where  the  feel- 
ings—  those  warbling  birds —  build  their  nests,  where  love's 
light  humming-bird  sings,  but  sings  only  once,  and  then  the 
heart  becomes  a  Memnon's  pillar,  where  the  tones  are  always 
awakened  by  music's  strong  morning  light.  In  love  was 
man  created  ;  love  is  our  home,  and  therefore  all  music  be- 
6 


82  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

comes  an  echo,  that  awakens  the  remembrance  of  home  !  I 
tore  myself  away  from  my  dreams  ;  my  friends  waited  for  me 
by  the  Elbe,  where  our  gondola  lay.  The  excursion  to  Saxon 
Switzerland  was  now  to  begin  ;  the  sail  soon  swelled  in  the 
breeze,  and  the  rapid  strokes  of  the  oar  cleft  the  watery  mir- 
ror. My  companions  sang  and  laughed ;  I  was  compelled  to 
laugh  too,  whilst  the  awakened  remembrances  of  life  in  my 
heart  were  broken  in  jarring  discords  by  this  sudden  transition 
from  dreams  to  reality. 

We  passed  several  large  boats  filled  with  villagers  —  girls 
and  women  who  had  been  to  Dresden  with  milk  ;  they  lay  in 
various  groups,  and  shaded  themselves  from  the  sun  whilst 
the  wind  gently  touched  the  sail.  The  women's  faces  were 
quite  of  a  yellow  brown  ;  the  girls',  on  the  contrar}^,  red  and 
white,  with  lively  dark  eyes  ;  I  thought  of  the  naiads  of  the 
Danube,  and  imagined  to  myself  these  rustic  beauties  as  the 
ruling  spirits  of  the  Elbe.  I  looked  into  the  large  dark-blue 
eyes  of  one  of  the  kindliest,  and  directly  a  whole  dozen  of 
songs  and  ballads  came  rushing  into  my  head.  The  vine 
hills  assumed  a  fresher  green ;  the  pine  woods  were  somewhat 
more  gloomy,  and  all  the  red-roofed  buildings  on  the  sides  of 
the  mountains  stood  before  me  as  browmies  who  had  lost  their 
lives  in  the  bright  sunshine. 

We  landed  at  the  palace  of  Pillnitz,  the  summer  residence 
of  the  King  of  Saxony. 

Here  let  us  pause  upon  our  way ! 

There's  not  a  better  place  to  see  ; 
By  the  mill  here  we  will  stay, 

Under  this  old  linden-tree. 
O'er  the  wheel  the  foaming  water 

Rushes  like  the  troubled  main  ! 
And  there's  the  miller's  pretty  daughter 

Peeping  through  the  window-pane. 
Innocence  dwells  on  her  brow, 

Faith  's  in  her  mildly  beaming  eye ! 
She  regards  us  closely  now, 

And  the  smiling  landscape  nigh. 
Stately  rocks  of  gray  and  red 

Stretch  the  river's  shores  along, 
The  sun  shines  bright,  the  birds  have  sped 

O'er  bush  and  brake,  with  merry  song. 


LOHMEN.  83 

What  a  landscape !     Let  us  tarry, 

Everything  invites  to  gladness  ; 
And  yet  I  feel  at  heart  so  weary, 

I  must  weep  for  very  sadness. 
Hark  !  the  bird  bewails  its  fate  : 

"  My  young  ones  they  have  from  me  torn, 
And  they  have  shot  my  tender  mate. 

And  left  me  here  bereft,  forlorn." 
Behold  these  rocks'  majestic  height ! 

And  yet  into  the  vale  of  late 
One  thundered  down  in  hideous  might. 

And  sealed  a  hapless  father's  fate. 
Brightly  shines  the  morning  sun, 

With  equal  warmth,  on  all  mankind  ; 
His  bright  beams  gladden  every  one,  — 

The  rich,  the  poor,  the  halt,  the  blind. 
'Tis  just  as  if  the  mill-wheel's  rush 

Sang  as  it  roared  with  rapid  whirl : 
"  Did  I  not  an  infant  crush. 

And  in  the  treacherous  water  hurl 
The  girl  herself  .''  "     And  yet  to  grieve 

O'er  woes  unreal,  sure  is  vain  ; 
My  fancy  is  too  skilled  to  weave 

These  horrors  from  a  sickly  brain. 

In  nature  and  the  world  there  is  no  dissonance  ;  the  one  dis- 
solves itself  in  the  other,  and  in  our  own  breasts  we  must  seek 
the  last,  which  can  only  be  dissolved  by  the  great  Master. 

We  passed  by  the  high  declivity  of  rock,  and  looked  down 
into  the  valley,  which  lay,  like  a  mighty  picture  of  my  own 
heart,  still  and  gloomy,  with  its  foaming  river,  whilst  the  sun 
shone  bright  and  warm  over  our  heads,  on  the  waving  corn- 
fields and  on  the  road  where  the  children  played  and  romped. 

We  descended  the  rocky  path  at  Miihlsdorf,  where  there 
was  a  bridge  over  the  river  Wesenitz,  and  we  were  in  Lohmen. 
In  former  times  it  had  been  a  little  city,  and  still  enjoys  the 
rights  of  many  corporate  towns  ;  the  castle  stands  on  a  pro- 
jecting cliff,  high  above  the  river.  The  two  principal  buildings 
are  united  by  a  balcony,  which  is  laid  over  a  point  of  rock, 
whence  one  looks  out  over  the  charmingly  romantic  environs. 
There  is  an  inscription  in  rhyme,  on  a  tablet  here,  which  states 
that,  above  sixty  years  since,  a  young  countryman,  who  had 
laid  himself  down  to  sleep  in  the  balcony,  fell  dow^^  •  '^ 


84  RAMBLES  IN  THE   HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

though  he  fell  from  a  height  of  seventy-six  feet,  he,  through 
God's  help,  escaped  uninjured. 

Not  far  from  here  is  a  church,  said  to  be  one  of  the  hand- 
somest village  churches  in  all  Saxon}'.  There  was  something 
strikingly  fine  about  it.  A  fresh  grave  had  just  been  cov-ered, 
and  the  white  sand  strewed  on  it,  but  the  wind  had  torn  the 
flowers  from  the  grave.  I  gathered  them  together,  made  a 
wreath  of  them,  and  laid  it  on  the  grave  again.  A  little  bird 
twittered  in  a  tree  close  by,  as  if  it  would  thank  me  :  it  must 
have  seen  and  known  the  silent  sleeper  that  here  rested  his 
tired  head  in  the  cool  earth. 

From  the  resting-place  of  the  dead  we  went  to  that  of  the 
living.  The  inn  stood  close  by  a  pond,  where  there  was  a 
number  of  quacking  ducks  ;  we  entered  the  guests'  room  — 
yes,  here  was  something  for  a  painter  !  A  number  of  peas- 
ants sat  in  groups,  and  played  cards  ;  O  !  there  were  char- 
acteristic faces  !  The  girl  came  down  the  high  stairs  which 
led  from  the  side-room  into  this,  with  a  candle  in  her  hand  ; 
the  flame  of  the  candle  fell  on  her  fresh  young  face  as  she 
cast  a  side  glance  on  the  strangers.  Two  women  were  play- 
ing the  harp  and  singing ;  they  seized  the  strings  like  a  storm- 
wind,  and  sang  with  squeaking  voices  :  "  Herz,  mein  Herz, 
warum  so  traurig  ?  "^  so  that  we  were  all  made  quite  sad  and 
melancholy  by  it.  The  supper  was  soon  steaming  on  the  table  ; 
it  consisted  of  roasted  ducks,  which  were  quite  remarkable  for 
their  age ;  the  landlord  stood  in  a  fine,  serious  position,  with 
folded  arms,  and  looked  at  us  and  the  ducks  with  a  mien 
which  indicated  that  neither  the  ducks  nor  we  were  to  his 
taste.  We  went  to  rest,  —  but  let  us  spring  over  that  night ! 
I  had  enough  of  it  in  reality.  Nature  and  art  had  here 
played  a  trick  ;  the  first  had  made  me  too  long,  and  the 
last  the  bedstead  too  short.  In  desperation  I  was  obliged 
to  play  the  part  of  a  night  wanderer,  and  descended  into  the 
large  guests'  room  ;  but  here  it  looked  too  romantic  !  Some 
wild  looking  fellows,  with  thick  black  beards,  were  slumber- 
ing round  about  on  bundles  of  straw;  an  ugly  black  bull-dog, 
that  looked  like  a  worn-out  hair  trunk,  sprang  toward  me  with 
a  howling  war-song,  so  that,  like  a  prudent  general,  I  turned 
1  O  heart,  my  heart,  wherefore  so  sad  .' 


OTTOWALDER   GRUND.  85 

my  back  toward  him.  The  rain  poured  down  in  torrents  out 
of  doors,  and  lashed  the  ground,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  See, 
this  was  the  way  it  came  down  at  the  Deluge."  The  day 
began  to  break,  but  there  was  no  hope  of  getting  to  the 
mountains.  This  was  the  first  bad  weather  I  had  as  yet  had 
on  my  travels,  and  therefore  I  found  it  very  interesting.  It 
will  be  better  in  the  course  of  the  day,  thought  I  ;  and 
scarcely  had  an  hour  passed  before  the  rain  abated.  We  took 
courage,  and  having  got  a  little  peasant  boy,  of  about  ten 
years'  old,  as  guide,  we  set  out  on  our  way,  through  Ottowalder 
Grund,  and  to  Bastei,  which  place  we  were  to  ascend.  I 
looked  a  little  suspiciously  at  our  small  edition  of  a  guide,  as 
he  hopped  on  before  us  so  merrily,  with  his  hazel  stick  in  his 
hand.  He  was  barefooted,  and  laughed  and  chattered  away 
without  ceasing ;  and  it  almost  appeared  to  me  as  if  he  had 
a  trick  in  his  head,  —  as  if  he  were  the  living  Cupid  who  had 
become  our  guide.  If  he  be  not  our  seducer,  thought  I  — 
and  then  many  of  that  young  rogue's  tricks  came  into  my 
head.  "  That  little  rascal  who  runs  about  with  arrows," 
Wessel  calls  him  ;  and  it  is,  in  truth,  vexatious  that  such  a 
little  whelp  has  the  right  to  shoot  great,  full-grown  persons. 
Yet  it  is  said  that  those  who  get  each  other  soon  draw  the 
arrows  out  again,  and  then  all  love  is  gone  ;  but  the  others 
keep  the  arrows  in  their  hearts,  and  then  it  is  often  mortal. 

We  descended,  step  by  step,  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
valley ;  this  was  Ottowalder  Grund.  The  rocky  walls  arose 
on  both  sides  in  the  strangest  forms,  and  richly  grown  with 
wild  plants,  roots,  and  various  colored  mosses  \  the  trees  and 
bushes  stood  in  picturesque  groups  between  the  clefts  of  the 
rocks  ;  far  below  rushed  a  little  streamlet,  and  above  us  we 
saw  but  once  a  small  piece  of  the  gray  sky. 

The  rocky  walls  were  soon  so  close  together  that  there  was 
only  space  for  one  at  a  time  ;  three  immense  blocks  of  stone 
had  fallen  from  above  and  formed  a  natural  arch,  under  which 
we  had  to  pass :  here  it  was  quite  gloomy. 

The  vale  suddenly  became  broader,  and  then  narrow  again. 
We  entered  "Die  Teufelskuche,"  ^  —  a  wild  cleft  in  the  rock, 
where  the  masses  of  fallen  blocks  have  formed  a  long  chim- 

^  The  devil's  kitchen. 


86  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

ney-llke  opening.  I  looked  up  through  it ;  clouds  hurried 
past,  above  us,  and  it  looked  as  if  some  ghostly  being  was 
flying  away  in  the  open  air. 

We  soon  left  the  rocks  behind,  and  a  wide  vale  extended 
itself  before  us.  The  bluish  white  mist  hung  in  light  clouds 
around  the  mountains'  tops,  and  the  heavens  and  the  earth 
seemed  as  if  they  would  melt  together  in  one  great  mass  of 
rock.  We  continued  our  progress,  and  Nature's  great  pano- 
rama around  us  continually  changed.  Little  Cupid  knew  his 
business ;  he  would  not  lead  us  astray :  one  is  apt  to  judge 
too  severely  of  Love's  propensities. 

A  fine  large  building  lay  before  us  :  it  was  the  inn  on 
"  Bastei "  (the  bastion)  —  for  here  it  is  exceedingly  high. 
Could  you  place  a  couple  of  church-towers  one  on  the  other, 
and  not  be  giddy  by  standing  on  the  extreme  point,  you 
would  then  have  some  idea  of  its  height.  There  is  a  railing 
so  that  you  cannot  fall.  That  long,  pale-yellow  ribbon  down 
there,  which  to  your  eye  does  not  look  broader  than  the  curb- 
stones in  the  street,  is  the  river  Elbe  ■.  that  brown-yellow  wil- 
low leaf  which  you  think  is  floating  on  it,  is  a  long  river- 
vessel  ;  you  can  also  see  the  men  on  it,  but  they  are  only  dots  ! 
Try  to  throw  a  stone  into  the  Elbe  —  you  must  use  your  whole 
strength  —  yet  it  will  fall  here  on  this  side,  in  the  grass.  The 
villages  lie  down  there  like  playthings  on  a  stall.  Yonder 
Konigstein  and  Lilienstein  rise  half  way  up  into  the  cloud  of 
mists  j  but  see,  the  cloud  is  breaking ;  the  sun's  rays  fall  on 
Pfaffenstein  and  "  the  Cupola  Mountains  ;  "  the  whole  curtain 
rolls  up,  and  in  the  azure  distance  you  see  the  Bohemian 
Rosenberge  and  Geisingberge  in  Erzgebirge.  Close  by  us, 
toward  the  left,  there  are  only  wild  rocks  which  rise  from  the 
abyss,  and  from  the  deep  a  walled  pillar  lifts  itself,  on  which 
rests  a  bridge  that  unites  "Bastei"  with  "Das  Felsenschloss." 
It  is  quite  dark  in  the  rocky  ravine  under  us  ;  our  guide 
pointed  out  traces  in  the  rock  which  show  that  men  have  lived 
here  before.  It  looks  as  if  this  huge  mass  of  rock  had  been 
riven  asunder,  —  as  if  some  mighty  power  had  here  tried  to 
split  our  proud  globe  in  two. 

The  road  wound  along  the  deep  abyss  ;  rocks  and  clefts 
succeeded  each  other  alternately. 


WOLF'S  GORGE.  '^'J 

The  whole  scene  was  to  me  like  a  great  lyrical,  dramatic 
poem,  ill  all  possible  metres.  The  rivulet  brawled,  in  the 
choicest  iambics,  over  the  many  stones  that  lay  in  the  way  \ 
the  rocks  stood  as  broad  and  proud  as  respective  hexameters  ; 
the  butterflies  whispered  sonnets  to  the  flowers  as  they  kissed 
their  fragrant  leaves  ;  and  all  the  singing  birds  warbled,  in 
Sapphic  and  Alcaic  strains :  I,  on  the  contrary,  was  silent, 
and  will  also  be  so  here. 

We  now  bent  our  steps  toward  Hohenstein,  but  first  made  a 
little  detour  in  order  to  see  that  strange  freak  of  nature, 
"  Teufelsbriicke  "  (the  devil's  bridge).  The  devil  really  has 
taste.  Every  place  that  bears  his  name,  or  alludes  to  him, 
has  in  it  something  piquant :  the  most  romantic  places  are 
those  which  they  have  placed  in  connection  with  him.  As  I 
have  said,  he  has  taste,  and  that  is  one  good  quality. 

Teufelsbriicke  is  just  as  if  thrown  over  a  ravine  between 
two  perpendicular  cliffs  ;  the  rock  is  split  from  its  topmost 
summit  down  to  the  green  meadow,  but  the  whole  extent  of 
the  opening  is  not  more  than  three  or  four  yards  in  breadth. 
At  a  few  paces  from  it  there  is  a  similar  cleft,  but  the  chasm 
is  a  strange  zigzag,  and  forms  a  sort  of  passage.  This  place 
has  obtained  a  peculiar  interest  from  the  poet  Kind  having 
laid  the  incantation  scene  in  "  Der  Freischutz  "  here. 

From  the  topmost  verge  of  the  cliff  we  descend  through 
this  cleft  into  the  valley.  One  can  only  go  singly,  the  rocks 
being  so  near  each  other :  sometimes  we  scramble  down  a 
ladder,  sometimes  we  find  ourselves  nearly  wedged  in  the  rock 
itself,  and  at  the  very  bottom  we  stand  in  a  narrow  cavern, 
where  there  is  not  room  for  more  than  three  or  four  persons. 

"  Help,  Zamiel !  "  we  shouted,  when  we  were  about  half- 
way down  ;  for  it  appeared  to  be  a  fathomless  pit.  Every 
time  we  rounded  a  piece  of  rock  which  we  thought  concealed 
the  entrance,  there  still  lay  a  deeper  abyss  below  us. 

By  way  of  Hohenstein  and  Schandau  we  now  pursued  our 
course  through  the  free  and  open  country.  A  broad  carriage- 
road  by  the  shore  of  a  small  river  between  the  green  forests, 
led  us  into  a  wild,  rocky  region.  The  ladies  were  now  carried 
up  the  path  in  a  sort  of  sedan  chair,  we  others  carried  our- 
selves ;  and  thus  we  reached  about  the  same  time  the  end  of 


88  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

this  day's  tour.  A  lofty,  arched,  rocky  hall  lay  before  us  ; 
it  was  Kuhstall.^  At  first  sight  it  appears  as  if  it  had  been 
built  by  human  hands  ;  but  when  we  approached  nearer  to 
this  proud  mass,  we  felt  that  Nature  alone  can  erect  such  a 
gigantic  building.  The  inhabitants  of  the  environs  are  said 
to  have  sought  a  refuge  here  in  the  Thirty  Years'  War  ;  here 
they  had  a  great  number  of  their  cattle,  whence  the  place  has 
derived  its  name. 

It  began  to  rain,  but  we  sat  high  and  dry,  as  seamen  say, 
under  the  huge  portal,  whilst  a  rainbow  extended  its  glorious 
arch  over  the  forest,  and  between  the  opposite  rocks.  I  can- 
not remember  ever  having  seen  such  bright  colors,  or  such  a 
splendid  rainbow ;  it  was  not  alone  in  the  air  that  it  showed 
itself;  no,  it  passed  down  the  side  of  the  rocky  wall,  and 
rounded  itself  far  below  us  on  the  top  of  the  dark  pine  forest, 
forming  a  complete  circle.  An  old  man  in  a  worn-out  gray 
frock-coat  sat  on  a  stone  block  at  the  entrance  of  the  hall, 
and  played  to  us  ;  several  strings  of  his  harp  were  broken  ; 
discord  followed  discord  ;  but  when  one  looked  at  the  old 
man,  whose  life  certainly  must  have  resembled  his  harp- 
playing,  there  was  harmony  again  in  the  whole. 

A  narrow  road,  like  a  cavern  through  the  rock,  led  us  to  a 
third  side  of  this  rocky  portal.  Bare  stone  walls  rose  on  both 
sides  ;  we  were  obliged  to  go  up  ladders  and  stairs  to  get  to  the 
summit  of  the  cliff.  The  first  cavern  is  called  "  Das  Wochen- 
bett,"  ^  because  unhappy  mothers  brought  their  children  into 
the  world  here  in  the  time  of  the  war. 

The  path  wound  close  by  the  deep  abyss  ;  we  passed  over  a 
small  bridge,  and  came  to  another  group  of  rocks.  Here  a 
pair  of  large  shears  was  painted  on  the  rock  ;  the  place  is  called 
Schneiderloch,"  ^  and  is  said  to  have  been  a  place  of  refuge 
for  a  band  of  robbers,  whose  leader  had  learnt  the  trade  of  tai- 
loring, but  afterward  found  pleasure  in  ripping  up  men  instead 
of  old  coats.  In  order  to  get  in  and  out  of  this  cavern  we  were 
obliged  to  crawl  on  hands  and  feet ;  there  was  something  really 
frightful  in  it  to  see  one  after  the  other  creep  out  of  that  deep 
hole,  so  far  above  two  yawning  abysses.  Here  was,  however, 
a  splendid  echo  which  repeated  our  words  six  or  seven  times. 
1  Cow-stall.  2  Child-bed.  ^  Tailor's  hole. 


KUHSTALL.  89 

Close  by  is  "  Pfaffenloch,"  ^  an  aperture  through  which  a  ^Driest 
was  cast  down,  during  the  times  of  religious  persecution.  I 
looked  down  into  its  depth,  but  it  was  perfect  night  there, 
whilst  the  sky  above  us  was  red  with  the  setting  sun.  Before 
we  descended  we  were  obliged  to  creep  on  hands  and  feet 
through  "  Die  kriimme  Caroline,"  ^  a  very  winding  hole,  that 
led  us  back  to  the  path  in  the  cliffs.  I  have  never  seen  such 
a  number  of  names  in  any  place  as  here  in  Kuhstall  ;  not 
even  in  the  Directory  are  there  so  many !  The  whole  rocky 
hall,  inside  and  outside,  on  every  spot,  was  a  variegated  pic- 
ture of  names  alone  :  some  were  even  carved  in  the  stone,  and 
then  tarred  and  burnt  in  afterward  —  so  that  this  kind  of  im- 
mortality must  have  cost  no  little  trouble. 

1  Priest's  hole.  ^  Crooked  Caroline. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A   TOUR   INTO   BOHEMIA.  —  THE   RETURN    BY  WAY  OF  PIRNA.  — 
SONNENSTEIN. MY    LAST    DAYS    IN  DRESDEN. 

WE  were  all  on  foot  again  by  early  dawn.  The  birds 
warbled  merrily,  but  they  had  most  assuredly  slept 
better  than  we  had  —  at  least,  they  had  had  the  bed  they  were 
accustomed  to.  The  misty  clouds  hung  like  sleep  in  Nature's 
eyes,  so  that  the  good  lady  did  not  look  so  very  well  pleased. 
At  length  the  sun  burst  through  the  veil  ;  but  I  was  quite  tired 
of  the  eternal  pine  forests,  which  even  in  the  best  light  ap- 
peared to  me  cold  and  stiff.  Our  way  was  now  in  a  continued 
zigzag  upward,  and  over  pieces  of  basalt  rock ;  thus  we 
reached  "  Kleine  Winterberg."  ^  Here  the  Elector  Augustus 
of  Saxony,  in  1558,  is  said  to  have  pursued  a  powerful  stag  to 
the  very  verge  of  the  precipice.  The  Elector  stood  on  the 
narrow  path  under  the  rock,  the  animal  above  him,  pursued  by 
the  dogs  ;  the  stag  was  about  to  spring  down  on  him,  when  it 
must  have  hurled  him  into  the  abyss  below.  There  was  but 
one  chance  of  escape  :  he  took  aim  at  the  animal,  fired,  and 
was  successful.  His  son  afterward  erected  a  hunting-lodge  on 
that  spot :  it  is  still  standing,  and  the  roof  is  ornamented  with 
the  antlers  of  this  same  stag. 

After  a  somewhat  fatiguing  walk,  we  came  to  the  end  of  the 
pine  forest,  and  stood  amongst  beautiful  green  beeches  ;  round 
about  were  numerous  springs,  which  bubbled  forth  from  the 
luxuriant  soil  ;  a  few  paces  further,  and  we  stood  1780  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea.  What  an  infinity  stretched  around 
us  !  Far  below,  in  the  wood-grown  abyss,  was  the  Elbe,  wind- 
ing its  way  like  a  ribbon,  which  lost  itself  near  Dresden,  whose 
towers  and  cupolas  rose  before  the  blue  mountains  of  Meissen. 
Yet  it  was  grandest  toward  Bohemia.  I  had  never  imagined 
1  The  little  winter-mountain. 


A    TOUR  INTO  BOHEMIA. 


91 


that  the  mountains  could  assume  such  a  dark-blue  tinge  — 
they  lay  before  me  like  a  petrified  sea,  and  in  the  distant 
horizon  rose  Riesengebirge,  with  their  snow-clad  summits, 
like  an  airy  cloud-land,  where  one  could  see  to  Colmberg, 
although  there  are  twenty-four  German  miles  between.  Heavy 
clouds  passed  along  the  mountains'  sides  ;  a  part  lay  quite  in 
shadow,  whilst  another  rose  in  the  clear  sunshine. 

The  sun  shone  also  into  my  heart,  whilst  heavy  clouds 
sailed  over  this  inner  world.  There  is  something  powerfully 
touching  in  thus  surveying  a  great  tract  of  land  as  with  a  bird's 
eye.  How  many  a  heart  is  there  not  beating  with  desire  or 
joy  far  below  in  the  valley  !  how  many  a  scalding  tear  is  there 
not  shed  on  the  proud  mountains  that  lift  their  heads  above 
the  clouds  !  Could  one  but  read  the  heart  of  that  stranger 
who  sits  here  amongst  the  heather,  what  an  idyl  or  an  epos 
should  we  not  find  there  !  he  looks  down  on  the  charming 
landscape  beneath  the  wild  rocks,  and  on  the  waving  clouds 
that  sometimes  conceal,  then  divide,  and  disclose  this  para- 
dise of  peace. 

Aloft  on  the  mountain,  where  the  clouds  ride, 

While  the  dark  pines  groan  on  its  rocky  side, 

Where  the  well  bubbles  forth  beneath  the  stone, 

I  sat  alone. 

The  rock  is  an  island  unto  me, 

And  the  clouds  pass  by,  like  the  waves  of  the  sea  ; 

Now  the  heavy  masses  break, 

And  the  sun  shines,  as  on  a  glassy  lake. 

I  see  below  me  the  green  mead, 

Where  my  steps  were  wont  to  tread,  — 

There,  where  the  birds  are  singing  clear. 

And  the  nuts  have  the  tint  of  the  falling  year  ; 

Where  the  blue-white  smoke-clouds  ride, 

And  whirl  about  the  mountain  side  ; 

Then  did  I  find  a  home,  and  one  — 

My  heart  and  soul  were  hers  alone. 

She  loved  me  —  she  was  constant  ever, 

But  Fate  compelled  us  twain  to  sever. 

She  was  a  bride,  —  below  they  dwell. 

Where  the  old  oaks  shade  the  lonely  dell ; 

Where  the  smoke-clouds  hang,  and  their  tops  conceal : 

She  her  thoughts  must  not  reveal. 

Thou  must  not  think  of  me. 

Yet  this  heart  dreams  but  of  thee  ! 


Q2  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

In  my  pain  I  heap  sin  on  sin. 

While  my  heart  thou  dwellest  in. 

Thou  sea  of  clouds,  more  thickly  spread,  and  prove 

A  veil  to  hide  from  me  my  grave  of  hope  and  love ! 

A  single  melody  we  have  heard  but  once,  often  makes  so 
powerful  an  impression  on  our  minds  that  it  seems  to  sound 
in  our  ears  again,  amidst  the  bustle  of  the  world,  without  our 
being  able  to  sing  it  aloud,  however  clearly  it  echoes  in  our 
memory.  It  is  even  so  with  me  also  with  regard  to  the  beauti- 
ful in  nature.  This  piece  of  music,  brought  forth  in  colors,  with 
light  and  shade,  I  learned  during  a  few  hours'  wandering  in 
the  Bohemian  mountains.  There  was,  perhaps,  also  something 
in  this  circumstance  —  that  here  was  the  most  southern  part 
of  the  continent  that  I  had  fixed  on  seeing  during  my  peregri- 
nation, and  accordingly  that  hence  I  must  bend  my  steps  again 
toward  the  North.  The  whole  of  that  charming  landscape, 
seen  in  the  brightest  sunshine,  lives  in  my  remembrance  ;  I 
see  every  point,  and,  like  old  melodies,  it  often  sounds  in  my 
mind,  without  my  having  the  power  to  express  it  in  tones  and 
song.  I  see  the  large  plain  in  the  forest  with  the  felled  pines, 
where  they  told  us  that  we  had  now  passed  the  frontiers ;  I 
see  the  sun-burnt  Bohemian  girl,  with  the  white  linen  head- 
dress and  bare  feet,  whom  we  met  in  the  dark  pine  forest ;  and 
now  that  wild  group  of  rocks,  "  Prebischthor,"  where  we  stood 
under  the  proud  rocky  arch  which  the  mighty  spirit  of  nature 
had  so  grandly  raised  above  our  heads  I  see  the  far-extended 
forests  deep  below  us,  and  the  distant  mountains,  with  their 
snows,  illumined  by  the  bright  rays  of  the  sun.  "  Only  down 
into  that  valley,  and  then  no  further  !  "  thought  I ;  and  yet  a 
a  still  more  beautiful  valley  discloses  itself  to  view  beyond 
yonder  mountains,  where  one  can  see  the  frontiers  of  T^rol, 
where  one  already  breathes  the  air  of  Italy  on  the  high  moun- 
tains. Only  down  into  that  valley,  and  then  homeward  — 
homeward  toward  the  North,  perhaps  never  to  return  —  never 
more  to  see  these  mountains,  with  their  gloomy  forests,  aloft 
in  the  light-blue  clouds. 

We  ran  down  the  steep  mountain  declivity,  where  the  path 
wound  round  in  large  curves  :  through  "  Die  heiligen  Hallen," ' 
1  The  holy  hall. 


A    TOUR  INTO  BOHEMIA.  93 

a  romantic  rocky  group  under  the  mountain,  we  came  to  the 
broad  highway  in  the  forest.  Bohemian  peasants  drove  past 
us ;  large,  strong-built  oxen  drew  the  wagons ;  the  forest 
resounded  with  the  woodman's  axe,  several  of  whom  we 
passed,  as,  with  their  lively  songs  and  tra-la-las,  they  kept 
time  to  the  strokes  of  the  axe.  The  Bohemians  have  an 
innate  bent  for  music  ;  almost  every  peasant  plays  the  violin 
or  flute.  This  alone  makes  me  love  the  people  ;  for  who- 
ever loves  music  must  have  an  open  and  good  heart.  Mu- 
sical sounds  form,  however,  that  Iris  which  unites  heaven 
with  earth.  Color,  tone,  and  thought  are,  in  fact,  the  trinity 
of  nature.  The  earthly  expresses  itself  in  the  value  of  dif- 
ferent colors  ;  and  these  again  reveal  themselves  spiritually 
in  the  mighty  tones,  which  again  hold  the  key  of  the  heart's 
deepest  recess.  It  is  melody  alone  that  has  sufBcient 
strength  to  solve  the  deep  enigmas  of  thought  often  awakened 
in  our  souls. 

We  went  past  a  pleasant  little  house,  with  red-painted 
wood-work  and  vines  growing  up  the  walls;  there  sat  a  little 
sunburnt  boy,  with  silvery-white  hair,  practicing  on  an  old 
violin.  Perhaps  that  little  fellow  will  one  day  be  a  great 
virtuoso,  astonish  the  world  with  his  playing,  be  admired  and 
honored,  whilst  a  secret  worm  gnaws  all  the  green  leaves  off 
his  life's  tree. 

The  forest  now  receded  more  and  more  ;  the  road  lay 
between  wild  rocks ;  a  small  river  contributed  to  vary  the 
whole  scene ;  water-mill  succeeded  water-mill,  where  large 
planks  and  stones  were  sawn  through  ;  in  several  places  we 
only  found  a  narrow  board,  without  any  railing,  that  served 
as  a  bridge  over  the  river.  At  length  we  entered  the  Bohe- 
mian frontier-town  Herrnskretschen. 

Everything  around  me  had  quite  a  new  character.  The 
whole  bore  a  strange  and  peculiar  stamp.  I  still  see  so  clearly, 
under  the  yellow-gray  cliffs,  with  their  greenwood  sides,  the 
neat  red-painted  houses,  with  their  wooden  balconies,  high 
stairs,  and  palisades,  and  with  a  picture  of  Christ  or  the 
Madonna  over  the  door,  which,  however  badly  it  was  painted, 
nevertheless  gave  the  whole  a  touch  of  interest.  I  still  see 
the  many  women,  the  lively  girls  and  boys,  who  stood  with 


94  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

naked  feet  by  the  river  side,  and  dragged  to  land  with  long 
poles  the  large  pieces  of  wood  that  floated  down  the  stream. 
I  see  the  tawny  old  woman  by  the  open  window,  who  greeted 
us  in  the  ncunes  of  Joseph  and  Mary.  I  see  that  strange  parti- 
colored picture,  with  the  fresh  garland  of  flowers,  there,  in 
the  centre  of  the  market-place,  where  an  old  peasant  kneels 
and  says  his  "  Ave  Maria,"  and  where  the  pretty  young  girls 
go  past,  courtesy  low,  and  make  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

It  was  the  picture  of  St.  Nepomuck,  the  Bohemians'  tutelary 
saint,  that  I  saw  here.  It  was  strange  to  think  that  I  was 
now  in  a  land  where  I  was  regarded  as  a  heretic.  The  Cath- 
olic church  in  Dresden,  with  its  music  and  its  ceremonies, 
did  not  draw  me  so  near  the  Papal  chair,  however,  as  this 
picture  of  a  saint  in  the  open  air,  and  the  old  woman's  Cath- 
olic greeting. 

We  walked  some  distance  along  the  shores  of  the  Elbe, 
where  we  met  with  some  Austrian  soldiers,  who  kept  guard  on 
their  frontiers.  Three  Bohemian  watermen  waited  for  us  with 
a  sailing-boat,  to  conduct  us  back  again  to  Saxony.  The  wind 
blew  and  filled  the  sails  ;  wood-covered  mountains  rose  on 
both  sides  \  we  passed  several  large  vessels  with  timber  and 
planks  from  the  interior  of  Bohemia.  Close  by  the  shores 
of  the  Elbe  we  saw  a  large  stone-quarry,  which  has  a  partic- 
ular interest  for  Danes,  as  the  stones  used  in  the  building  of 
Christiansberg  Palace  (in  Copenhagen)  were  brought  from  this 
place.  Not  far  from  hence,  over  the  path  along  by  the  Elbe, 
there  stands  a  rock  which,  at  a  distance,  forms  a  striking  like- 
ness to  the  bust  of  Louis  XVI.,  and  is  called  after  him. 
There  was  the  whole  expression  of  the  face,  and  the  large 
peruke  hung  round  the  gigantic  head ;  if  one  got  close  under 
the  rock,  then  the  whole  was  indistinct,  and  one  saw  only  the 
wild  rocks  one  above  the  other,  with  green  bushes  in  the 
deep  clefts. 

We  landed  at  Schandau,  that  we  might  be  in  Dresden  the 
same  evening ;  but  we  had  still  another  rocky  group  to  visit, 
the  well-known  Lilienstein.  The  stately  cliffs  rose  perpen- 
dicularly ;  we  stood  at  their  feet,  under  the  ancient  linden- 
trees,  which  also  afforded  shade  to  Frederick  II.  A  number 
of  footpaths  intersected  each  other  here ;  sometimes  we  sank 


SONNENSTEIN. 


95 


down  in  the  deep  sand ;  sometimes  we  had  to  ascend  almost 
perpendicularly  up  steps  that  were  hewn  in  the  rock.  A 
little  wooden  bridge  lay  across  a  yawning  gulf;  the  path 
curved  more  and  more  ;  at  length  we  stood  on  the  topmost 
point,  which  is  a  large  flat  surface,  almost  the  circumference 
of  the  whole  rock,  and  grown  with  pines  and  firs.  Here  is 
a  most  charming  prospect  over  Schandau  and  to  the  Bohe- 
mian Mountains.  The  river  Elbe,  far  below,  wound  its  way 
between  the  sunlit  meadows  ;  and  on  the  other  side  lay  the 
hamlet  of  Konigstein,  under  the  noble  rocks  on  which  the 
fortress  itself  is  situated. 

A  little  path  along  one  side  of  the  Elbe,  under  the  lofty 
rocks,  leads  down  toward  Pirna  and  the  palace  of  Sonnenstein, 
an  institution  for  insane  persons. 

A  strange  feeling  must  seize  every  one  that  pays  a  visit 
within  these  walls,  which  inclose  a  world  within  themselves,  —  a 
world  that  is  warped  out  of  its  natural  career,  where  the  green 
germ  of  life  either  withers,  or  develops  itself  in  a  spiritual  de- 
formity. Imagination,  this  life's  best  cherub,  that  conjures  up 
an  Eden  for  us  in  the  sandy  desert,  —  that  lifts  us  in  its  strong 
arms  over  the  deepest  abyss,  over  the  highest  mountain,  into 
God's  glorious  heaven,  —  is  here  a  frightful  chimera,  whose 
Medusa-head  petrifies  reason  and  thoughts,  and  breathes  a 
magic  circle  around  the  unfortunate  victim,  who  is  then  lost 
to  the  world. 

Seest  thou  that  little  square  room,  with  the  iron- grated 
window  up  there  ?  There,  on  the  floor,  in  the  middle  of  the 
straw,  sits  a  naked  man  with  a  black  beard,  and  with  a  wreath 
of  straw  around  his  head  —  that  is  his  crown  ;  a  withered 
thistle  he  found  in  the  straw  is  his  sceptre.  He  strikes  at  the 
flies  that  buzz  about  him  ;  for  he  is  a  king,  he  is  a  despot ; 
the  flies  are  his  subjects  ;  he  says  they  have  rebelled,  they 
will  have  his  head,  they  have  forced  their  way  in  to  him, 
but  he  cannot  tell  how ;  yet  they  storm  in,  but  they  cannot 
tear  his  head  off  his  shoulders. 

A  woman  approaches  us  ;  she  has  been  pretty,  but  pain  has 
contorted  her  features.  "  I  am  Tasso's  Leonora  ;  Heine  has 
sung  about  me  !  Ha!  there  are  many  poets  who  have  sung 
my  charms,  and  that  can  flatter  a  woman's  heart  finely  !    It 


g6  J?  A  J/BLÆS  LV  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

is  my  triumph  ;  there  was  Hkewise  one,  but  he  could  not  cel- 
ebrate me  in  song,  and  so  he  shot  himself  through  the  heart, 
and  that  was  quite  as  good  as  a  song.  Now  the  whole  world  is 
mad  for  love  of  me,  and,  therefore,  I  have  come  to  this  foreign 
palace  ;  but  now  they  have  all  become  mad  here  from  look- 
ing at  me  ;  but  I  can  do  nothing  for  them  ;  I  cannot  help  it !  " 

Look  at  that  open  window :  there  sits  a  pale  young  man  ;  he 
leans  his  head  on  his  arm,  and  looks  out  at  the  red  evening 
sky  and  the  ships  which,  with  outstretched  sails,  glide  up  the 
Elbe.  Our  approach  does  not  disturb  his  meditation  ;  he  re- 
gards his  whole  existence  as  a  dream,  recalls  to  mind  a  hap- 
pier time  in  which  he  has  lived,  and  regards  us  and  the 
whole  scene  before  him  as  a  vision. 

Here  is  one  who  has  a  monomania :  he  believes  he  can  hear 
the  pulsations  of  ever}'  beating  heart,  that  he  can  hear  it  burst 
its  strings  in  death  —  in  his  ears  they  burst  with  the  wild- 
est tones,  so  that  he  becomes  furious.  He  is  then  bound 
fast  in  a  chair  which  is  whirled  round  by  means  of  a  wheel. 
With  a  wild  scream  he  rushes  round  until  consciousness  leaves 
him,  when  the  wheel  is  stopped. 

But  away  with  these  frightful  pictures :  the  carriage  is  al- 
ready waiting,  and  in  a  few  hours  we  shall  be  again  in  Dresden. 

I  had  only  three  days  to  remain  here,  and  there  were  many 
things  yet  to  be  seen,  many  that  I  wished  to  see  again.  Those 
pictures  hurried  past  my  mind  like  clouds  in  a  stormy  night ; 
every  hour  brought  with  it  something  interesting  to  me.  I 
revisited  the  picture-gallery,  saw  the  works  of  the  great  mas- 
ters once  more,  and  imprinted  the  glorious  subjects  in  my  mind. 
I  then  heard  mass  in  the  Catholic  "church,  and  once  more 
ascended,  and  took  leave  of  the  mountains  in  "  Plauenschen 
Grund,"  —  a  romantic  landscape  close  to  Dresden,  which  re- 
minded me  of  Riibeland,  although  it  is  far  richer  in  variety 
than  the  latter.  The  way  lay  between  steep  cliffs  :  there  was 
a  river  which  formed  a  water-fall,  and  close  by  lay  a  mill. 
Charcoal-burners  drove  into  the  forest,  and  up  on  the  declivity 
of  the  rock  there  sat  a  little  boy  watching  goats  :  there  was  not 
a  painting  in  the  whole  picture-gallery  at  Dresden  where  the 
figures  could  be  better  placed  than  these  were  here.  A  refresh- 
ing quiet  lay  over  the  charming  landscape ;  it  was  as  if  rocks, 


MV  LAST  DA  YS  IN  DRESDEN. 


97 


forests,  and  flowers  dreamt  of  a  more  southern  sky,  whilst  the 
river  bubbled  on  between  the  stones,  and  sang  a  loud,  somnif- 
erous lullaby  to  the  whole  scene  around.  Dresden  itself  lay 
pleasantly  embosomed  between  the  green  vine  hills  ;  the  whole 
landscape  was  a  picture  of  childish  peace,  of  the  innocent 
heart's  romantic  dreams. 

Many  prefer  Tharand  to  Plauenschen  Grund  ;  others,  th^  lat- 
ter to  the  former :  I  know  not  which  party  I  shall  join  ;  both 
had  in  them  something  peculiar,  something  that  made  one 
feel  one's  self  comfortable  here.  Plauenschen  Grund,  with  its 
winding  road  under  the  cliffs,  where  there  is  life  and  bustle,  ap- 
peared to  me  more  lively,  and  seems  to  show  a  more  manly 
character  ;  whilst  Tharand,  with  its  ruin,  its  smooth  lake,  and 
its  deep  solitude,  has  in  it  something  more  passive,  some- 
thing more  feminine. 

The  old  school-master  came  into  my  mind,  and  I  said  with 
him,  "  Here  is  room  enough  ;  many  persons  might  here  profit 
by  all  this  grandeur  !  "  but  how  few  are  they  who  see  all  the 
beautiful  things  with  which  God  has  adorned  our  earth !  In 
reality  there  is  but  little  difference  between  man  and  the  dog, 
which,  chained  to  his  kennel,  is  only  able  to  make  a  few 
springs  on  his  usual  place  of  exercise. 

That  Dresden  can  display  its  character  as  a  point  of  transi- 
tion between  northern  and  southern  Germany,  I  had  a  perfect 
idea  of,  the  last  forenoon  I  stayed  here.  It  was  as  cold  as 
winter.  The  rained  poured  down,  and  everything  assumed  a 
dark,  northern  aspect.  Porters  ran  through  the  streets  with 
sedan-chairs,  where  the  ladies  peeped  out  from  behind  the  red 
curtains.  The  Elbe  looked  like  thick  yellow  coffee.  Only  a 
few  showed  themselves  in  the  streets. 

Later  in  the  day  it  was  again  clear  weather,  and  warm  as  in 
summer  ;  crowds  of  persons  were  again  seen  moving  about  on 
the  Briihlian  terraces,  where  the  trees,  refreshed  by  the  rain, 
now  gave  a  pleasant  scent.  Music  soundedup  there,  and  gon- 
dolas, boats,  and  ships  crossed  each  other  on  the  Elbe. 

The  last  morning  in  Dresden  now  greeted  me.  I  must  go  out 
once  more  to  hear  the  glorious  tones  under  the  vaulted  roof  of 
the  church,  to  see  once  more  the  green  vine  hills  in  the  morn- 
ing light.  The  day  was  fine  ;  the  whole  country  by  the  Elbe 
7 


98  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

lay  in  the  most  glorious  sunshine  —  it  appeared  to  me  as  if 
everything  had  put  on  its  Sunday  clothes,  to  say  adieu  to  me  ! 
but  on  this  account  I  felt  it  the  more.  There  was  no  mass 
that  day  in  the  Catholic  church  ;  the  organ  alone  played  its 
simple  melodies  ;  but  they  were  the  farewell  songs,  the  last 
deep  tones  that  I  should  probably  hear  in  Dresden  during  my 
life.  I  saw  an  old  priest,  in  one  of  the  confessionals,  with  a 
venerable  face  ;  a  young  girl  was  kneeling  on  the  other  side  of 
the  grating  at  confession.  I  also  wished  for  a  father,  a  friend, 
to  whom  I  could  pour  out  the  feelings  that  rushed  into  my 
heart  on  taking  leave  of  a  dear,  yet  foreign  spot,  which  was  no 
longer  alien  to  the  heart. 

I  now  went  to  take  leave  of  Dahl,  who  gave  me  some  draw- 
ings and  a  sketch  in  oil,  that  I  might  be  able  to  say  I  had  some- 
thing he  had  painted.  "  Next  summer,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  cer- 
tainly visit  Denmark,  and  see  all  friends  and  acquaintances." 
He  then  shook  hands  with  me  as  a  "  Live- well !  "  saying,  "  That 
is  in  Danish ;  and  that,"  added  he,  as  he  kissed  me  on  the 
cheek,  "is  in  German  !  " 

I  could  not  just  now  bid  farewell  to  Tieck.  I  was  obliged 
to  walk  about  in  the  open  air  until  the  parti-colored  pictures 
round  about  again  began  to  reflect  themselves  in  the  heart  and 
mind  ;  for  these  worldly  pictures  are  like  the  sea  in  a  storm, 
no  star  can  be  reflected  there  ;  but  when  one  sees  the  green 
coasts,  and  the  ever}^-day  life's  red-roofed  houses  show  them- 
selves on  the  surface,  then  it  is  quiet  again. 

Tieck  received  me  in  his  study,  and  looked  so  kindly  in 
my  face  with  his  large  wise  eyes,  that  I  made  myself  strong 
again,  for  I  felt  a  lately  suppressed  sadness  creeping  over  me 
with  renewed  power.  He  showed  much  kindness  toward  me, 
praised  what  things  he  knew  of  mine,  and  as  I  had  no  album 
with  me,  he  wrote  on  a  loose  sheet  of  paper  the  following  lines 
in  remembrance  of  himself:  — 

"  Gedenken  Sie  auch  in  der  Ferne  meiner ;  wandeln  Sie  Wohlgemuth 
und  heiter  auf  dem  Wege  der  Poesie  fort,  den  Sie  so  schon  und  muthig 
betreten  haben.  Verlieren  Sie  nicht  den  Muth,  wenn  niichterne  Kritik  Sie 
argern  will.  Griissen  Sie  uns  bald  einmal  frisch  gesund  und  reichbegabt 
von  den  Musen  nach  Deutschland  zuriick. 

"  Ihr  wahrer  Freund,  LuDWiG  T1ECK.1 

"Dresden,  lode  Juni,  1831." 

1 "  Remember  me  also  at  a  distance  :  may  you  wander,  elevated  with  joy, 


Å/v  LAST  DA  YS  IN  DRESDEN.  99 

I  bade  him  farewell.  No  stranger  saw  us,  and  therefore  I 
feared  not  to  give  vent  to  my  feelings.  He  pressed  me  to  his 
bosom,  predicted  a  fortunate  career  for  me  as  a  poet,  and  cer- 
tainly thought  that  I  was  a  far  better  man  than  I  am.  His 
kiss  glowed  on  my  brow :  I  know  not  what  I  felt,  but  I  loved 
all  mankind.  "  May  I,  if  for  only  once,  as  a  poet,"  thought  I, 
"  be  able  to  present  something  to  the  world  whereby  I  may 
show  the  great  poet  that  he  did  not  make  a  mistake  in  his  es- 
timation of  the  stranger  !  " 

It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  I  left  Dresden  by 
the  "  Schnelpost ;  "  I  now  saw  the  Catholic  church  and  the 
Briihlian  terraces  for  the  last  time,  as  we  hurried  past. 

Neustadt  also  was  soon  left  behind  ;  fields  and  meadows 
stretched  away  on  both  sides.  We  were  nine  in  the  diligence, 
and  I  sat  in  the  middle  of  that  game  of  nine-pins ;  God 
knows,  thought  I,  which  of  us  Death  will  hit  the  first  ?  All 
of  us  it  will  not  be  at  once  ;  but,  perhaps,  the  corner  pin. 
In  the  one  corner  sat  a  young  Russian  Woiwod ;  he  came 
from  Paris,  was  going,  by  way  of  Dresden  and  Berlin,  to 
Bremen,  and  would  go  from  thence  to  Italy ;  he  did  not 
like  the  shortest  road  !  In  another  corner  sat  an  Englishman, 
who  praised  Denmark,  where  he  had  been,  very  much  ;  and 
said  that  it  wanted  nothing  else  but  to  belong  to  England 
to  be  the  chief  pearl  in  Europe's  crown.  In  the  third  was 
a  travelling  comediaUj  but  whence  he  came  I  know  not ;  and 
in  the  fourth  a  young  wool-merchant,  with  his  still  younger 
wife.  They  came  from  a  town  on  the  Rhine,  and  he  was 
going  to  establish  himself  in  Berlin  :  they  had  been  married 
but  fourteen  days,  and,  therefore,  they  kissed  each  other 
continually,  played  with  each  other's  hands,  and  made  quota- 
tions from  "  Don  Carlos."  Town  followed  town,  whilst  the 
whole  country  changed  by  degrees  from  a  stout,  healthy, 
blooming  nature,  to  a  personified  consumption.  Only  a  few 
pictures   stand  out  clearly  from  that  dreamy  chaos.     Thus,  I 

and  happy  in  mind,  on  the  path  of  poesy,  which  you  have  begun  so  fairly 
and  courageously.  Let  not  your  spirits  sink  when  degenerate  criticism 
'exes  you.  Send  us  soon  a  greeting,  healthy  and  richly  gifted  ;  send  a 
greeting  from  the  Muses  back  to  Germany. 

"  Your  true  friend,  L.  T. 

"Dresden,  June  loih,  1831." 


lOO         RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

see  a  flat  country,  in  the  dusky  summer  night,  where  there  lay 
a  market  town  —  they  called  it  Grosenhain ;  there  was  a 
church  where  all  the  doors  and  windows  were  walled  up,  so 
that  the  whole  formed  a  hollow  stone  vault,  where  no  one  could 
enter,  and  we  were  told  that  this  was  done  in  the  time  of  the 
plague  j  the  sick  were  brought  here,  and  when  the  last  closed 
his  eyes,  they  stopped  up  the  church  entirely,  and  have  since 
then  not  dared  to  open  it  again. 

I  see  distinctly  the  fat  hostess  in  Jiiterborg,  with  her  signif- 
icant smile  at  my  ignorance,  when  I  pointed  to  the  figure 
of  a  knight  carved  in  stone,  which  is  placed  outside  the  town- 
hall.  Every  child,  she  thought,  knew  '■'■Der  alte  Mauritius  ;  " 
I  was  certainly  the  first  who  had  put  this  singular  question 
to  her. 

I  see  the  far-famed  mill  near  Sans-souci,  which  turned  its 
large  wings  so  slowly,  as  if  it  could  no  longer  go  round  like 
other  respectable  mills,  on  account  of  its  renown.  Here,  how- 
ever, was  a  little  verdure  to  relieve  the  eye,  —  aye,  and  a 
lake  too  ;  and  light  boats,  with  white  sails,  rocked  about  on 
the  river  Havel.  Sans-souci  stood  proudly  on  its  terraces, 
and  stared  at  the  stiff  city  of  Potsdam. 

It  was  already  evening  when  we  rolled  into  the  streets  of 
Berlin,  which  stretched  interminably  before  and  on  both  sides 
of  us.  It  was  imposing  from  its  greatness  ;  everything  was 
riches  and  splendor  ;  even  the  inhabitants  seemed  to  be 
dressed  out.  "  It  is  not  Sunday  to-day  ?  "  I  asked.  No, 
it  was  Saturday  in  the  almanac,  but  Berlin  always  looks 
as  if  it  were  Sunday  afternoon.  Where  should  I  take  up  my 
quarters?  was  the  next  question;  the  old  king  and  "  Drei 
Tage  aus  dem  Leben  eines  Spielers,"  which  we  all  know 
from  the  chapter  about  Brunswick,  came  into  my  mind. 
Louis  Angely,  the  translator  of  "  Drei  Tage,"  etc.,  etc.,  and 
author  of  several  vaudevilles,  was  owner  of  "  Der  Kaiser  von 
Rusland,"  one  of  the  first  hotels  in  Berlin ;  how  could  I, 
then,  be  in  doubt  as  to  where  I  should  choose  my  quarters  ? 


LIBRARY 
UNiVERSlTY  Cf  CALIFORWIfi 


mC 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

ADALBERT  VON  CHAMISSO.  —  THE    THEATRES    IN   BERLIN.  —  THE 

THIERGARTEN.  —  THE      PICTURE  -  GALLERY.  —  SPANDAU. 

AN    ADVENTURE.  —  THE    BIRD. THE  JOURNEY'S  END. 

WITH  a  letter  of  introduction  from  our  Orsted  ^  I  set 
out  to  visit  the  poet  Chamisso.  He  is  by  birth  a 
Frenchman,  and  has  been  an  officer  in  the  army.  After- 
ward, as  a  naturaUst,  he  made  a  voyage  round  the  world,  and 
was,  when  I  was  in  Berlin,  one  of  the  directors  of  the  Bo- 
tanical Garden  there.  I  was  extremely  anxious  to  see  the 
author  of  Peter  Schlemil's  "  Wundersame  Geschichte."  I 
entered,  and  Peter  Schlemil  himself  stood  living  before  me 

—  at  least  the  selfsame  figure  that  stands  in  the  book  — 
a  tall  meagre  figure,  with  long  gray  locks  hanging  down  over 
his  shoulders,  and  with  an  open  good-natured  face  ;  he  had 
on  a  brown  dressing-gown,  and  a  crowd  of  rosy-cheeked  chil- 
dren played  about  him.  He  bade  me  welcome  with  the 
heartiest  good-will,  and  I  had  now  one  acquaintance  in  this 
strange  city. 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  the  Opera-house,  where  Weber's 
opera,  "  Oberon,"  was  performed,  and  right  glad  I  was,  and 
though  I  only  got  a  spare  seat,  I  was  yet  one  of  the  first. 
Here  it  was  that  I  was  to  have  a  proper  idea  of  an  opera 

—  to  see  the  scenery  and  decorations  treated  as  an  art  by 
themselves,  and  what  machinery  can  be.  The  overture  was 
received  with  da  capo,  the  curtain  rolled  up,  and  whilst  the 
overture  was  repeated  I  had  an  opportunity  of  regarding  the 
splendid  decorations  and  the  charming  groups.  Oberon  did 
not  lie,  as  with  us,  in  a  solid  bed  :  the  whole  airy  hall  was 
overgrown  with  lilies,  and  he  lay  in  the  rocking  cup  of  one 
of  them.     Round  about  in  the  other  lilies  stood  smiling  genii, 

1  The  celebrated  Danish  chemist,  Hans  Christian  Orsted. 


I02  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

whilst  the  kirger  ones  hovered  about  in  a  light  and  air}^  dance. 
Every  decoration  was  thus  a  work  of  art,  as  also  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  whole;  but  the  mzchxno-xy  ^  7fiirabile  dictu  !  — 
the  machinery  was,  in  proportion  to  the  means,  bad.  I  call  it 
bad,  when  the  clouds  remain  stationary  half-way,  so  that  the 
genii  must  help  to  slide  them  on  ;  when  in  the  otherwise  mag- 
nificent sea-decoration  in  the  second  act,  where  the  air  was  so 
deceitfully  true,  one  could  see  into  the  lofts  over  the  air  curtains 
if  one  sat  on  the  second  bench  in  the  pit  opposite  to  it  The 
whole  airy  scenery  was  charming  here — one  saw  the  stars 
peep  gradually  forth :  if  the  ceiling  had  not  come  forward  at 
the  same  time,  it  would  have  been  beautiful.  The  changes 
were  also  managed  rather  clumsily;  and  in  the  Sea  of  Astra- 
chan  we  saw  a  scene-shifter  pass  over  the  surface  of  the  water, 
which  surprised  me  much,  although  I  knew  that  experiment 
at  home.  I  was,  however,  told  it  had  never  been  managed 
so  awkwardly  as  on  that  evening  —  that  the  machinery  here 
was  a  real  work  of  art :  we  must,  therefore,  regard  it  as  a 
misfortune  that  evening,  yet  I  cannot  refrain  from  mention- 
ing it. 

In  a  large  city  it  is  always  pleasant  when  there  are  several 
theatres  to  choose  amongst ;  but  when  good  pieces  are  per- 
formed in  them  all  the  same  evening,  one  cannot  agree  with 
one's  self ;  for  more  than  two  a  man  cannot  well  go  to  the  same 
evening.  This  I  felt  on  the  second  evening  of  my  stay,  when 
I  had  to  choose  between  the  "  French  Theatre,"  the  "  Char- 
lottenberg  Theatre,"  "  Konigstatisches  Theatre,"  and  the 
"  Opera-house."  Added  to  this,  Chamisso  had  invited  me  to 
accompany  him  to  the  Thiergarten,  where  he  would  introduce 
me  to  the  beaux  esprits  of  Berlin.  I  stood  like  Hercules  on  the 
cross-road,  and  —  accompanied  Chamisso.  I,  however,  found 
no  wild  animals  in  the  Thiergarten  ;  ^  they  were  all  tame,  very 
good-natured,  and  friendly  persons.  A  little  festival  was  ar- 
ranged here  in  consequence  of  the  poet  Holt}^'s  return  home 
from  Darmstadt,  where  he  had  been  giving  readings. 

Here  I  also  met  with  the  poet  Hoffman's  friend,  Hitzig,  and 
made  acquaintance  with  Wilibald  Alexis  (Håring),  who  spoke 
with  much  warmth  about  Denmark,  and  the  happy  hours  he 
had  passed  with  Oehlenschlager. 

i  The  Deer  Park. 


THE  PICTURE-GALLERY.  IO3 

It  is  quite  a  peculiar  and  pleasant  feeling,  when  in  a  strange 
land,  to  hear  our  own  spoken  well  of ;  then  we  feel  truly  that 
we  are  "  bone  of  its  bone,  and  flesh  of  its  flesh,"  so  that  every 
praise  and  every  reproach  that  is  pointed  at  it  also  seem  to 
fall  on  us,  who  are,  however,  but  a  small  part  thereof;  yet  I 
suppose  it  is  in  this  case  as  in  most  others,  we  set  our  native 
land  in  the  one  scale  and  ourselves  in  the  other. 

Here  was,  however,  much  that  reminded  me  of  home,  and 
carried  me  back  to  Denmark,  particularly  the  warm  affection 
with  which  they  named  their  king,  whose  health  was  one  of 
the  first  we  drank. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  we  separated.  The  night 
brought  sleep  and  rest,  and  the  next  day  new  things  to  be 
seen. 

The  Museum  is  only  open  on  certain  days  in  the  week,  but 
strangers  are  permitted  to  view  it  at  all  times  on  showing 
their  passports  to  the  keeper. 

The  building  has  in  it  something  imposing.  A  high  flight 
of  steps  occupies  almost  the  whole  breadth  of  the  fagade  ;  col- 
umns and  arches  rise  prettily  above  us.  Where  we  enter  a 
rotunda,  decorated  with  antiques,  a  suite  of  rooms  opens  with 
these  glorious  remains  of  past  ages.  Taste  and  elegance  dis- 
tinguish the  whole.  Some  steps  higher  lead  us  into  the  great 
picture-gallery,  which  in  royal  magnificence  surpasses  both 
that  in  Dresden  and  Copenhagen,  but  in  value  is  far  inferior 
to  either  of  them. 

The  floors  were  polished,  and  the  attendants,  in  new  silver- 
laced  liveries,  stood  by  the  doors.  For  the  rest,  there  were 
paintings  here  by  the  first  masters,  only  I  was  astonished  at 
the  number  of  horrifying  ideas  I  found  executed  here.  For 
instance,  there  were  three  pieces,  hanging  together,  by  Jeron- 
imus Bosch,  representing  the  Creation,  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
and  Hell  —  where  the  Day  of  Judgment  represented  such  dis- 
gusting images  that  I  do  not  like  to  refer  to  them  in  all  their 
ugliness.  I  found  more  than  one  Christ's  head  by  Hughe 
van  d'Goes,  which  might  certainly  be  considered  as  master- 
pieces, if  taken  directly  from  nature  ;  but  here  they  were  exe- 
cuted to  perfect  ugliness.  The  crown  of  thorns  was  pressed 
deep  into  the  head  of  the  Redeemer,  so  that  the  large  blood- 


I04         RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

drops  gushed  forth  :  every  vein  was  swelled  ;  the  lips  were 
of  a  dark  blue  j  and  the  heavy  sweat-drops  lay  in  loathsome 
truthfulness  over  the  whole  face.  There  was  something  in  it, 
to  me  at  least,  revolting.  It  is  the  poetical  in  pain  that  "the 
painter  should  express,  and  not  its  prosaic  repulsiveness.  I 
cannot  forget  the  vampire-looking  pictures  :  they  stand  before 
me  now  far  more  living  than  Guido  Reni's  "  Fortune,"  Van- 
dyke's "The  Descent  of  the  Holy  Ghost,"  and  Michael  An- 
gelo's  "  Burial  of  Christ,"  which  I  saw  here. 

Five  days  in  Berlin  depart  like  a  sneeze  ;  one  only  knows, 
in  fact,  the  beginning  and  the  end. 

Chamisso  was  the  last  to  whom  I  bade  farewell !  Before 
we  parted,  the  poet  wrote  the  following  little  impromptu,  as  a 
remembrance,  which  I  here  add  to  my  recollections  of  Ber- 
lin:— 

"  O  lasset  uns,  in  dieser,  diistern,  bangen  Zeit, 
Wo  hochanschwellend  donnernd  der  Geschichte  Strom, 
Die  starre,  langgehegte  Eisesdecke  sprengt, 
Das  neue  Leben  unter  Triimmern  bricht  hervor, 
Und  sich  in  Stiirmen  umgestalten  will  die  Welt, 
O  lasset  uns,  ihr  Freunde  —  rings  verhallt  das  Lied 
Und  unserm  heitern  Saitenspiele  lauscht  kein  Ohr  — 
Dennoch  die  Gottergabe  des  Gesanges  treu 
In  reinen  Busen  hagen,  wehren,  dass  vielleicht 
Wir  hochergraute  Barden  einst  die  Sonne  noch 
Mit  Hochgesang  begriissen,  welche  das  Gewolck 
Zertheilend  die  verjiingte  Welt  bescheinen  wird. 
Prophetisch,  Freunde,  bring  ich  dieses  voile  Glas, 
Der  fernen  Zukunft  einer  andern  Liederzeit." 

My  way  home  lay  through  Brandenborg-Thor.  I  bade  fare- 
well to  the  Goddess  of  Victory,  who,  with  her  proud  bronze 
horses,  had  seen  other  scenes  than  I.  In  her  younger  days 
she  was  placed  as  if  she  drove  out  of  Berlin  ;  but  when  she 
did  so  in  reality,  and  even  went  direct  to  Paris,  she  was  trans- 
ported back  and  placed  with  her  face  toward  the  cit}' ;  and  it 
is  certainly  better  that  Victory  make  her  entry  into  a  city  than 
that  she  should  go  out  of  it. 

My  travelling  companions  this  time  were,  a  baker,  two 
miller's  children,  that  is  to  say,  a  he  and  a  she — the  latter 
one  might  call  "Die  schone  Miillerin  "  —  an  old  governess, 
and  a  poetical  tailor. 


AN  ADVENTURE. 


105 


The  sun  burnt  like  fire,  and  the  country  began  to  put  its 
worst  face  on  as  we  left  Spandau  :  it  was  just  as  if  we  drove 
over  a  map,  the  whole  was  so  flat.  At  last  the  beautiful  scen- 
ery crept  into  a  blade  of  grass  that  peeped  forth  here  and 
there. 

The  baker,  who  suffered  much  from  the  heat  and  fear  of 
the  cholera,  puffed  and  groaned.  He  had  five  or  six  bottles 
of  wine  with  him,  in  which  there  was  something  he  called 
cholera-drops  ;  and,  as  he  emptied  one  after  the  other,  he  be- 
gan to  sing,  as  if  from  despair.  It  sounded  like  a  broken 
wail.  At  last,  when  the  bottles  became  lighter,  he  grew  quite 
poetical,  and  began  to  recite.  They  were  "  terrible  recita- 
tives," about  death,  the  devil,  the  white  lady,  and  all  given 
in  one  tone. 

The  sun  now  looked  into  the  diligence  to  see  all  this.  The 
road  began  to  be  so  dusty  that  we  were  obliged  to  draw  the 
windows  up.  Here  we  now  sat,  six  souls  in  six  bodies  and  a 
half,  —  for  the  baker's  could  pass  very  well  for  one  and  a  half. 
He  now  came  out  with  effect :  the  clear  water-drops  stood  on 
his  face.  His  neighbor,  the  young  poetical  tailor,  sat  quite 
pale  and  warm,  and  exclaimed  at  the  close  of  every  verse, 
'■'■JottHch  !  "  The  old  governess  looked  so  stately,  and  kept 
smelling  continually  of  a  lemon,  whilst  I  tried  all  possible 
ways  to  stretch  my  poor  legs,  which  I  at  length  bored  in  be- 
tween "  Die  schone  Miillerin  "  and  her  br6ther,  who  slept,  and 
nodded  in  their  sleep,  like  two  marsh  marigolds  when  it  blows 
a  little.  The  baker  took  them  for  approving  nods,  and  raised 
his  voice  still  louder,  when  a  coal-black  head  darted  out  of 
the  governess's  reticule,  with  a  bark  and  a  scream.  Here  she 
had  concealed  her  dog,  as  no  dogs  are  permitted  in  the  dili- 
gence. It  had  kept  still  the  whole  time  previously,  but  now  it 
lost  all  patience  :  it  gave  a  few  short  barks,  so  that  the  sleep- 
ing brother  and  sister,  and  we  other  half-dead  beings,  sprang 
up  in  the  vehicle,  and  thrust  our  heads  into  the  large  net  that 
hung  from  the  roof,  for  our  sticks,  umbrellas,  and  other  small 
articles.  "  Die  schone  Mullerin  "  had  also  stuck  a  large  pa- 
per in  the  net  full  of  white  powdered-sugar,  which  was  broken, 
and  overwhelmed  the  poor  baker,  whose  face  now  looked  like 
a  living  spring.     Fortunately  we  were  near  a  town  —  Peesin. 


I06         RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

I  think  they  called  it.  Here  he  found  comfort,  and  we  other 
preliminaries  toward  resting  ourselves  ;  that  is  to  say,  we  had 
just  time  to  sit  down,  when  the  postilion  blew  his  horn,  and 
we  were  again  crammed  into  our  wandering  prison.  The 
baker  no  longer  recited  verse  ;  but,  by  an  association  of  ideas, 
he  passed  from  the  governess's  dog  to  Goethe's  "  Faust," 
where  the  dog  in  particular  had  been  so  devilish  good.  He 
had  seen  this  piece  in  Berlin,  and  placed  it  equally  as  high  as 
"  RoUa's  Death,"  which  was  his  favorite  piece,  for  he  had 
once  performed  in  it  in  his  youth  as  a  young  savage.  "  Die 
schone  Miillerin  "  and  I  passed  the  time  in  talking  about  the 
different  sorts  of  cheese,  and  I  rose  considerably  in  her  esteem 
when  I  told  her  the  way  to  prepare  Funen's  sour-milk  cheese. 
We,  however,  went  forward  at  a  rapid  rate,  and  every  time  I 
peeped  out  of  the  window  I  saw  nothing  but  white  sand  and 
dark  fir  woods. 

The  tailor,  who  sat  between  the  baker  and  governess,  cast  a 
look  now  and  then  to  the  window,  but  it  required  a  swan's 
neck  to  look  out ;  and  as  we  just  happened  to  pass  a  large 
thistle,  that  stood  here  as  a  symbol  of  fertility,  he  lisped,  with 
a  look  at  the  baker,  to  whom  he  wished  to  show  his  acquaint- 
ance with  literature,  — 

"  Roslein,  Roslein,  Roslein  roth, 
Roslein  auf  der  Haiden  ;  " 

but  then  stopped  short,  quite  perplexed,  and  looked  at  his 
handkerchief,  which  he  played  with,  as  he  probably  feared  that 
the  baker  would  regard  this  outburst  as  an  allusion  to  himself; 
for  he  also  sat  here  in  the  sand  with  a  face  round  and  red  as  a 
"Roslein  roth,  Roslein  auf  der  Haiden." 

We  drove  continually  forward ;  it  was  just  as  if  an  ever 
green  piece  of  calico  with  white  spots  had  been  extended  be- 
fore the  windows  of  our  vehicle  —  not  a  change  in  the  whole 
country.  I  wished  now  that  I  had  the  last  act  of  "  Drei  Tage 
aus  dem  Leben  eines  Spielers,"  which  I  went  away  from  in 
Brunswick.     It  would  have  done  some  good. 

The  dark  night,  however,  brought  us  an  incident,  or  rather 
a  comic  scene,  only  it  is  a  pity  that  it  was  more  dramatic  than 
epic,  and  therefore  cannot  so  well  be  told  as  performed.  We 
stopped  to  change  horses  before  one  of  those  pretty  two-storied 


THE  BIRD.  107 

inns,  with  fluted  columns  in  the  walls,  and  handsome  facades, 
that  one  finds  on  the  way  between  Berlin  and  Hamburg,  We 
all  got  out,  except  the  old  governess  and  her  lap-dog,  which 
she  still  had  in  a  bag,  to  refresh  ourselves  in  the  neat  and 
prettily  ornamented  guests'-room.  The  old  lady  fell  asleep  in 
the  mean  time,  and  perhaps  dreamt  of  her  youth,  when  she  also 
was  a  rose  ;  for  every  wild  brier  has  been  such  a  flower.  At 
length  she  awakes  ;  there  is  no  one  but  herself  and  the  dog  in 
the  carriage  —  she  looks  out,  all  is  dark  and  still  as  death  — 
no  light  shines  through  the  windows  of  the  house.  The  horses 
are  taken  from  the  carriage  ;  she  screams  out,  for  her  travel- 
ing companions  have  travelled  on,  and  forgotten  her  :  she 
sits  alone  here  in  the  middle  of  the  high-road,  in  the  Prussian 
sands,  in  the  depth  of  night ! 

We  were  all  in  the  guests'-room,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
house,  as  there  were  some  minutes  to  spare  before  the  horses 
would  be  put  to.  We  heard  the  scream,  ran  out  of  the  house 
to  render  assistance,  and  opened  the  carriage  door  \  but  her 
terror  was  now  greater  than  before,  as  she  thought  it  was  some 
one  who  would  rob  her.  She  screamed,  the  dog  barked,  and 
we  shouted  to  each  other  in  order  to  get  an  explanation,  which 
even  then  it  was  not  very  easy  to  obtain. 

We  were  now  soon  off  again.  The  Prussian  roads  are  excel- 
lent ;  they  are  as  if  one  drove  over  a  chamber  floor. 

At  length  we  came  to  the  frontiers  of  Mecklenburg.  The 
land  here  is  a  smiling  oasis  in  the  midst  of  the  desert.  Here 
we  again  saw  noble  trees,  oaks  and  beeches  :  the  corn  waved 
in  the  fields,  and  I  dreamt  I  was  in  the  middle  of  Sealand. 
Ludwigsliist,  with  its  palace,  its  large  gardens,  and  broad  av- 
enues, lay  before  us.  A  window  stood  open  in  the  inn  yard 
where  we  stopped ;  a  sparrow  sat  on  it  and  chirped  merrily. 
I  know  not  what  it  was,  but  both  the  bird  itself  and  the  voice 
seemed  familiar  to  me.  It  was  certainly  the  same  little  per- 
son that  chirped  outside  my  window  the  last  morning  I  was 
in  Denmark,  but  who  I  did  not  then  understand. 

At  Lauenburg  there  were  enormous  sand  banks  in  succes- 
sion ;  it  looked  as  if  the  sea  had  lately  receded  and  left  them 
behind. 

The  road  soon  became  so  broad  that  it  scarcely  knew  where 


I08  RAMBLES  IN  THE  HARTZ  MOUNTAINS. 

its  own  end  was.  Sometimes  it  ran  in  between  those  white 
mountains,  where  the  carriage  sank  so  deep  that  the  horses 
could  scarcely  drag  it  from  the  place  ;  and  then  think  that  it 
was  moonlight,  and  that  we  neither  saw  nor  heard  a  living  be- 
ing but  ourselves  !  I  have  said  I  would  depict  this,  that  I  would 
paint  Hamburg  and  Lubeck  on  my  return  tour,  now  that  I  am 
quiet  within  the  wall  of  Copenhagen  ;  but  as  I  take  the  pen, 
that  little  bird  sits  again  outside  my  window  and  chirps  as  be- 
fore I  travelled,  and  as  it  chirped  at  Ludwigslust.  I  really 
think  it  says  the  self-same  words  as  then,  and  it  is  the  third 
time.  It  must  be  a  critic,  for  it  puts  me  in  a  bad  humor ! 
Therefore  there  will  be  no  more  rambling  sketches  —  not  even 
of  the  glorious  sea,  which  was  also  out  of  humor  when  I  came 
home  ;  but  that  dark  look  suited  it  well,  as  did  the  fresh  breeze 
that  filled  the  sail  and  whirled  the  black  smoky  column  up 
into  the  air.  The  towers  of  Copenhagen  rose  before  us  :  they 
appeared  to  me  pointed  and  satirical,  as  if  they  were  a  type 
of  that  pen  which,  perhaps,  would  scratch  out  my  sketches. 

Many  a  little  bird  that  sings  in  the  woods,  if  it  were  cor- 
rected every  time  it  sang,  would  certainly  soon  be  quiet,  and 
grieve  itself  to  death  behind  the  green  hedges  ;  but  the  poet,  — 

Nor  praise,  nor  blame,  must  stop  his  free  pursuit ; 
With  storm  and  sun  the  flower  becomes  a  fruit  1 


PICTURES   OF  SWEDEN. 


PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 


WE   TRAVEL. 

IT  :s  a  delightful  spring  ;  the  birds  warble,  but  you  do  not 
understand  their  song  ?  Well,  hear  it  in  a  free  transla- 
tion. 

"  Get  on  my  back,"  says  the  stork,  our  green  island's  sacred 
bird,  "  and  I  will  carry  thee  over  the  Sound.  Sweden  also 
has  fresh  and  fragrant  beech  woods,  green  meadows,  and  corn- 
fields. In  Scania,  with  the  flowering  apple-trees  behind  the 
peasant's  house,  you  will  think  that  you  are  still  in  Denmark." 

"  Fly  with  me,"  says  the  swallow ;  "I  fly  over  Holland's 
mountain  ridge,  where  the  beech-trees  cease  to  grow  ;  I  fly 
further  toward  the  north  than  the  stork.  You  shall  see  the 
vegetable  mould  pass  over  into  rocky  ground  ;  see  snug,  neat 
towns,  old  churches  and  mansions,  where  all  is  good  and  com- 
fortable, where  the  family  stand  in  a  circle  around  the  table 
and  say  grace  at  meals,  where  the  least  of  the  children  says  a 
prayer,  and,  morning  and  evening,  sings  a  psalm.  I  have 
heard  it,  I  have  seen  it,  when  little,  from  my  nest  under  the 
eaves." 

"  Come  with  me  !  come  with  me  ! "  screams  the  restless 
sea-gull,  and  flies  in  an  expecting  circle.  "  Come  with  me  to 
the  Skjargaards,  where  rocky  isles  by  thousands,  with  fir  and 
pine,  lie  like  flower-beds  along  the  coast ;  where  the  fishermen 
draw  the  well-filled  nets  !  " 

"  Rest  thee  between  our  extended  wings,"  sing  the  wild 
swans.  "  Let  us  bear  thee  up  to  the  great  lakes,  the  perpet- 
ually roaring  elvs  (rivers),  that  rush  on  with  arrowy  swiftness  ; 
where  the  oak  forest  has  long  ceased,  and  the  bircli-tree  be- 


112  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

comes  stunted.  Rest  thee  between  our  extended  wings  :  we 
fly  up  to  Sulitelma,  the  island's  eye,  as  the  mountain  is  called  ; 
we  fly  from  the  vernal  valley,  up  over  the  snow-drifts,  to  the 
mountain's  top,  whence  thou  canst  see  the  North  Sea,  on  yon- 
der side  of  Norway. 

"  We  fly  to  Jemteland,  where  the  rocky  mountains  are  high 
and  blue ;  where  the  Foss  roars  and  rushes ;  where  the 
torches  are  lighted  as  budstikke,  -^  to  announce  that  the  ferry- 
man is  expected.  Up  to  the  deep,  cold,  running  waters,  where 
the  midsummer  sun  does  not  set ;  where  the  rosy  hue  of  eve 
is  that  of  morn." 

That  is  the  birds'  song.  Shall  we  lay  it  to  heart  ?  Shall 
we  accompany  them  —  at  least  a  part  of  the  way  ?  V/e  will 
not  sit  upon  the  stork's  back,  or  between  the  swans'  wings. 
We  will  go  forward  with  steam,  and  with  horses  —  yes,  also 
on  our  own  legs,  and  glance  now  and  then  from  reality,  over 
the  fence  into  the  region  of  thought,  which  is  always  our 
near  neighbor  land  ;  pluck  a  flower  or  a  leaf,  to  be  placed  in 
the  note-book  —  for  it  sprung  out  during  our  journey's  flight : 
we  fly  and  we  sing.  Sweden,  thou  glorious  land  !  Sweden, 
where,  in  ancient  times,  the  sacred  gods  came  from  Asia's 
mountains !  land  that  still  retains  rays  of  their  lustre,  which 
streams  from  the  flowers  in  the  name  of  "  Linnæus  ; "  which 
beams  for  thy  chivalrous  men  from  Charles  XII. 's  banner ; 
which  sounds  from  the  obelisk  on  the  field  of  Lutzen ! 
Sweden,  thou  land  of  deep  feeling,  of  heartfelt  songs ! 
home  of  the  limpid  elvs,  where  the  wild  swans  sing  in  the 
gleam  of  the  Northern  Lights !  Thou  land,  on  whose  deep, 
still  lakes  Scandinavia's  fairy  builds  her  colonnades,  and  leads 
her  battling,  shadowy  host  over  the  icy  mirror  !  Glorious 
Sweden !  with  thy  fragrant  Linnæus,  with  Jenny's  soul-enliv- 
ening songs  !  To  thee  will  we  fly  with  the  stork  and  the 
swallow,  with  the  restless  sea-gull  and  the  wild  swans.  Thy 
birch  woods  exhale  refreshing  fragrance  under  their  sober, 
bending  branches  :  on  the  tree's  white  stem  the  harp  shall 
hang :  the  North's  summer  wind  shall  whistle  therein  ! 

1  A  chip  of  wood  in  the  form  of  a  halberd,  circulated  for  the  purpose 
of  convening  the  inhabitants  of  a  district  in  Sweden  and  Norway. 


II. 

TROLLHATTA. 

WHOM  did  we  meet  at  Trollhatta?  It  is  a  strange 
story,  and  we  will  relate  it. 

We  landed  at  the  first  sluice,  and  stood  as  it  were  in  a  gar- 
den laid  out  in  the  English  style.  The  broad  walks  are  cov- 
ered with  gravel,  and  rise  in  short  terraces  between  the  sunlit 
greensward  :  it  is  charming,  delightful  here,  but  by  no  means 
imposing.  If  one  desires  to  be  excited  in  this  manner,  one 
must  go  a  little  higher  up  to  the  older  sluices,  which,  deep  and 
narrow,  have  burst  through  the  hard  rock.  It  looks  magnifi- 
cent, and  the  water  in  its  dark  bed  far  below  is  lashed  into 
foam.  Up  here  one  overlooks  both  elv  and  valley ;  the  bank 
of  the  river  on  the  other  side  rises  in  green,  undulating  hills, 
grouped  with  leafy  trees  and  red-painted  wooden  houses, 
which  are  bounded  by  rocks  and  pine  forests.  Steamboats 
and  sailing  vessels  ascend  through  the  sluices  ;  the  water 
itself  is  the  attendant  spirit  that  must  bear  them  up  above  the 
rock,  and  from  the  forest  itself  it  buzzes,  roars,  and  rattles. 
The  din  of  Trollhatta  Falls  mingles  with  the  noise  from  the 
saw-mills  and  smithies. 

"  In  three  hours  we  shall  be  through  the  sluices,"  said  the 
captain :  "  in  that  time  you  will  see  the  Falls.  We  shall 
meet  again  at  the  inn  up  here." 

We  went  from  the  path  through  the  forest :  a  whole  flock 
of  bare-headed  boys  surrounded  us.  They  would  all  be  our 
guides ;  the  one  screamed  longer  than  the  other,  and  every 
one  gave  his  contradictory  explanation,  how  high  the  water 
stood,  and  how  high  it  did  not  stand,  or  could  stand.  There 
was  also  a  great  difference  of  opinion  amongst  the  learned. 

We  soon  stopped  on  a  ling-covered  rock,  a  dizzying  ter- 
race.     Before  us,  but  far  below,  was  the  roaring  water,  the 


114  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

Hell  Fall,  and  over  this  again,  fall  after  fall,  the  rich,  rapid, 
rushing  elv  —  the  outlet  of  the  largest  lake  in  Sweden.  What 
a  sight!  what  a  foaming  and  roaring,  above  —  below  !  It  is 
like  the  waves  of  the  sea,  but  of  effervescing  champagne  — 
of  boiling  milk.  The  water  rushes  round  two  rocky  islands 
at  the  top,  so  that  the  spray  rises  like  meadow  dew.  Below, 
the  water  is  more  compressed,  then  hurries  down  again,  shoots 
forward  and  returns  in  circles  like  smooth  water,  and  then 
rolls,  darting  its  long  sea-like  fall  into  the  Hell  Fall.  What 
a  tempest  rages  in  the  deep  —  what  a  sight !  Words  cannot 
express  it ! 

Nor  could  our  screaming  little  guides.  They  stood  mute  ; 
and  when  they  again  began  with  their  explanations  and  stories, 
they  did  not  come  far,  for  an  old  gentleman  whom  none  of 
us  had  noticed  (but  he  was  now  amongst  us)  made  himself 
heard  above  the  noise,  with  his  singularly  sounding  voice.  He 
knew  all  the  particulars  about  the  place,  and  about  former 
days,  as  if  they  had  been  of  yesterday. 

"  Here,  on  the  rocky  holms,"  said  he,  "  it  was  that  the  war- 
riors in  the  heathen  times,  as  they  are  called,  decided  their 
disputes.  The  warrior  Starkodder  dwelt  in  this  district,  and 
liked  the  pretty  girl  Ogn  right  well ;  but  she  was  fonder  of 
Hergrimmer,  and  therefore  he  was  challenged  by  Starkodder 
to  combat  here  by  the  falls,  and  met  his  death  ;  but  Ogn 
sprung  toward  them,  took  her  bridegroom's  bloody  sword, 
and  thrust  it  into  her  own  heart.  Thus  Starkodder  did 
not  gain  her.  Then  there  passed  a  hundred  years,  and  again 
a  hundred  years  :  the  forests  were  then  thick  and  closely 
grown  ;  wolves  and  bears  prowled  here  summer  and  winter  ; 
the  place  was  infested  with  malignant  robbers,  whose  hiding- 
place  no  one  could  find.  It  was  yonder,  by  the  fall  before 
Top  Island,  on  the  Norwegian  side  —  there  was  their  cave  : 
now  it  has  fallen  in  !     The  cliff  there  overhangs  it !  " 

''-  Yes,  the  Tailor's  Cliff!  "  shouted  all  the  boys.  "  It  fell 
in  the  year  1755  !  " 

"  Fell ! "  said  the  old  man,  as  if  in  astonishment  that  any 
one  but  himself  could  know  it.  "  Ever}'thing  will  fall  once, 
and  the  tailor  directly.  The  robbers  had  placed  him  upon 
the  cliff  and  demanded   that   if  he  would  be  liberated  from 


TROLLHA  TTA. 


115 


them,  his  ransom  should  be  that  he  should  sew  a  suit  of 
clothes  up  there  ;  and  he  tried  it ;  but  at  the  first  stitch,  as 
he  drew  the  thread  out,  he  became  giddy  and  fell  down  into 
the  rushing  water,  and  thus  the  rock  got  the  name  of  '  The 
Tailor's  Cliff.'  One  day  the  robbers  caught  a  young  girl,  and 
she  betrayed  them,  for  she  kindled  a  fire  in  the  cavern.  The 
smoke  was  seen,  the  caverns  discovered,  and  the  robbers  were 
imprisoned  and  executed.  That  outside  there  is  called  '  The 
Thieves'  Fall,'  and  down  there  under  the  water  is  another  cave  \ 
the  elv  rushes  in  there  and  returns  boiling ;  one  can  see  it  well 
up  here,  one  hears  it  too,  but  it  can  be  heard  better  under  the 
bergman's  loft." 

And  we  went  on  and  on,  along  the  Fall,  toward  Top  Island, 
continuously  on  smooth  paths  covered  with  saw-dust,  to  Pol- 
ham's  Sluice.  A  cleft  had  been  made  in  the  rock  for  the 
first  intended  sluice-work,  which  was  not  finished,  but  whereby 
art  has  created  the  most  imposing  of  all  Trollhatta's  Falls,  — 
the  hurrying  water  falling  here  perpendicularly  into  the  black 
deep.  The  side  of  the  rock  is  here  placed  in  connection 
with  Top  Island  by  means  of  a  light  iron  bridge,  which  ap- 
pears as  if  thrown  over  the  abyss.  We  venture  on  to  the 
rocking  bridge  over  the  streaming,  whirling  water,  and  then 
stand  on  the  little  cliff  island,  between  firs  and  pines,  that 
shoot  forth  from  the  crevices.  Before  us  darts  a  sea  of  waves, 
which  are  broken  by  the  rebound  against  the  stone  block 
where  we  stand,  bathing  us  with  the  fine  spray.  The  torrent 
flows  on  each  side,  as  if  shot  out  from  a  gigantic  cannon, 
fall  after  fall :  we  look  out  over  them  all,  and  are  filled  with 
the  harmonic  sound,  which,  since  time  began,  has  ever  been 
the  same. 

"  No  one  can  ever  get  to  the  island  there,"  said  one  of 
our  party,  pointing  to  the  large  island  above  the  topmost 
fall. 

"  I  however  know  one  !  "  said  the  old  man,  and  nodded  with 
a  peculiar  smile. 

"  Yes,  my  grandfather  could  ! "  said  one  of  the  boys  j 
"  scarcely  any  one  besides  has  crossed  during  a  hundred 
years.  The  cross  that  is  set  up  over  there  was  placed  there 
by  my  grandfather.     It  had  been  a  severe  winter,  the  whole 


Il6  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

of  Lake  Wener  was  frozen  ;  the  ice  dammed  up  the  outlet, 
and  for  many  hours  there  was  a  dry  bottom.  Grandfather 
has  told  about  it :  he  went  over  with  two  others,  placed  the 
cross  up,  and  returned.  But  then  there  was  such  a  thundering 
and  cracking  noise,  just  as  if  it  were  cannons.  The  ice  broke 
up  and  the  elv  came  over  the  fields  and  forest.  It  is  true, 
every  word  I  say  !  " 

One  of  the  travellers  quoted  Tegner  :  — 

"  Vildt  Gota  stortade  från  Fjållen, 

Hemsk  Trollet  från  sat  Toppfall  rot ! 
Men  Snillet  kom  och  sprangt  stod  Hallen, 
Med  Skeppen  i  sitt  skot !  " 

"  Poor  mountain  sprite,"  he  continued,  "  thy  power  and 
glory  recede  !  Man  flies  over  thee  —  thou  mayst  go  and  learn 
of  him." 

The  garrulous  old  man  made  a  grimace,  and  muttered  some- 
thing to  himself —  but  we  were  just  by  the  bridge  before  the 
inn.  The  steamboat  glided  through  the  opened  way,  every 
one  hastened  to  get  on  board,  and  it  directly  shot  away  above 
the  Fall,  just  as  if  no  Fall  existed. 

"  And  that  can  be  done  !  "  said  the  old  man.  He  knew 
nothing  at  all  about  steamboats,  had  never  before  that  day 
seen  such  a  thing,  and  accordingly  he  was  sometimes  up  and 
sometimes  down,  and  stood  by  the  machinery  and  stared  at 
the  whole  construction,  as  if  he  were  counting  all  the  pins  and 
screws.  The  course  of  the  canal  appeared  to  him  to  be 
something  quite  new  ;  the  plan  of  it  and  the  guide-books 
were  quite  foreign  objects  to  him :  he  turned  them  and  turned 
them  —  for  read  I  do  not  think  he  could.  But  he  knew  all 
the  particulars  about  the  country  —  that  is  to  say,  from  olden 
times. 

I  heard  that  he  did  not  sleep  at  all  the  whole  night.  He 
studied  the  passage  of  the  steamboat ;  and  when  we  in  the 
morning  ascended  the  sluice  terraces  higher  and  higher,  from 
lake  to  lake,  away  over  the  high-plain  —  higher,  continually 
higher — he  was  in  such  activity  that  it  appeared  as  if  it 
could  not  be  greater  —  and  then  we  reached  Motala. 

The  Swedish  author  Tjorneros  relates  of  himself,  that  when 
a  child  he  once  asked  what  it  was  that  ticked  in  the  clock, 


TROLLHATTA. 


117 


and  they  answered  him  that  it  was  one  named  ^^  Bloodless." 
What  brought  the  child's  pulse  to  beat  with  feverish  throbs 
and  the  hair  on  his  head  to  rise,  also  exercised  its  power  in 
Motala,  over  the  old  man  from  Trollhatta. 

We  now  went  through  the  great  manufactory  in  Motala. 
What  ticks  in  the  clock,  beats  here  with  strong  strokes  of  the 
hammer.  It  is  Bloodless,  who  drank  life  from  human  thought, 
and  thereby  got  limbs  of  metals,  stone,  and  wood  ;  it  is 
Bloodless,  who  by  human  thought  gained  strength  which  man 
himself  does  not  physically  possess.  Bloodless  reigns  in  Mo- 
tala, and  through  the  large  foundries  and  factories  he  extends 
his  hard  limbs,  whose  joints  and  parts  consist  of  wheel  within 
wheel,  chains,  bars,  and  thick  iron  wires.  Enter,  and  see  how 
the  glowing  iron  masses  are  formed  into  long  bars.  Bloodless 
spins  the  glowing  bar !  see  how  the  shears  cut  into  the  heavy 
metal  plates ;  they  cut  as  quietly  and  as  softly  as  if  the  plates 
were  paper.  Here  where  he  hammers,  the  sparks  fly  from 
the  anvil.  See  how  he  breaks  the  thick  iron  bars  ;  he  breaks 
them  into  lengths ;  it  is  as  if  it  were  a  stick  of  sealing-wax 
that  is  broken.  The  long  iron  bars  rattle  before  your  feet ; 
iron  plates  are  planed  into  shavings  ;  before  you  rolls  the 
large  wheel,  and  above  your  head  runs  living  wire  —  long 
heavy  wire !  There  is  a  hammering  and  buzzing,  and  if  you 
look  around  in  the  large  open  yard,  amongst  great  up-turned 
copper  boilers  for  steamboats  and  locomotives.  Bloodless  also 
here  stretches  out  one  of  his  fathom-long  fingers,  and  hauls 
away.  Everything  is  living  ;  man  alone  stands  and  is  silenced 
by  —  stop  I 

The  perspiration  oozes  out  of  one's  fingers'  ends  :  one  turns 
and  turns,  bows,  and  knows  not  one's  self,  from  pure  respect 
for  the  human  thought  which  here  has  iron  limbs.  And  yet 
the  large  iron  hammer  goes  on  continually  with  its  heavy 
strokes :  it  is  as  if  it  said  :  "  Banco,  Banco !  many  thousand 
dollars  ;  Banco,  pure  gain  !  Banco  !  Banco  !  "  Hear  it,  as  I 
heard  it ;  see,  as  I  saw  ! 

The  old  gentleman  from  Trollhatta  walked  up  and  down  in 
full  contemplation  ;  bent  and  swung  himself  about ;  crept  on 
his  knees,  and  stuck  his  head  into  corners  and  between  the 
machines,  for  he  would  know  everything  so  exactly  ;  he  would 


I  I  8  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN: 

see  the  screw  in  the  propelling  vessels,  understand  its  mech- 
anism and  effect  under  water  —  and  the  water  itself  poured  like 
hail-drops  down  his  forehead.  He  fell  unconscious,  backward 
into  my  arms,  or  else  he  would  have  been  drawn  into  the 
machinery,  and  crushed  :  he  looked  at  me,  and  pressed  my 
hand. 

"  And  all  this  goes  on  naturally,"  said  he  ;  "  simply  and 
comprehensibly.  Ships  go  against  the  wind,  and  against  the 
stream,  sail  higher  than  forests  and  mountains.  The  water 
must  raise,  steam  must  drive  them  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  I. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  and  again  jjr^-,  with  a  sigh  which  I  did  not 
then  understand  ;  but,  months  after,  I  understood  it,  and  I  will 
at  once  make  a  spring  to  that  time,  and  we  are  again  at  Troll- 
håtta. 

I  came  here  in  the  autumn,  on  my  return  home ;  stayed 
some  days  in  this  mighty  piece  of  nature,  where  busy  human 
life  forces  its  way  more  and  more  in,  and,  by  degrees,  trans- 
forms the  picturesque  to  the  useful  manufactory.  Trollhatta 
must  do  her  work  ;  saw  beams,  drive  mills,  hammer  and  break 
to  pieces  :  one  building  grows  up  by  the  side  of  the  other,  and 
in  half  a  century  hence  here  will  be  a  city.  But  that  was  not 
the  story. 

I  came,  as  I  have  said,  here  again  in  the  autumn.  I  found 
the  same  rushing  and  roaring,  the  same  din,  the  same  rising 
and  sinking  in  the  sluices,  the  same  chattering  boys  who  con- 
ducted fresh  travellers  to  the  Hell  Fall,  to  the  iron  bridge 
island,  and  to  the  inn.  I  sat  here  and  turned  over  the  leaves 
of  books,  collected  through  a  series  of  years,  in  which  trav- 
ellers have  inscribed  their  names,  feelings,  and  thoughts  at 
Trollhatta  —  almost  always  the  same  astonishment,  expressed 
in  different  languages,  though  generally  in  Latin :  Veni,  vidi, 
obstiiptti. 

One  has  written  :  "  I  have  seen  nature's  masterpiece  per- 
vade that  of  art ; "  another  cannot  say  what  he  saw,  and  what 
he  saw  he  cannot  say.  A  mine  owner  and  manufacturer,  full 
of  the  doctrine  of  utility,  has  written :  "  Seen  with  the  great- 
est pleasure  this  useful  work  for  us  in  Varmeland,  Trollhatta." 
The  wife  of  a  dean  from  Scania  expresses  herself  thus.   She  has 


TKOLLHÅTTA.  II9 

kept  to  the  family,  and  only  signed  in  the  remembrance  book 
as  to  the  effect  of  her  feelings  at  Trollhatta.  "  God  grant  my 
brother-in-law  fortune,  for  he  has  understanding  !  "  Some  few 
have  added  witticisms  to  the  others'  feelings  j  yet  as  a  pearl 
on  this  heap  of  writing  shines  Tegner's  poem,  written  by  him- 
self in  the  book  on  the  28th  of  June,  1804, — 

"  Gotha  kom  i  dans  från  Seves  fjallar,"  etc. 

I  looked  up  from  the  book  and  who  should  stand  before 
me,  just  about  to  depart  again,  but  the  old  man  from  Troll- 
hatta !  Whilst  I  had  wandered  about,  right  up  to  the  shores  of 
the  Silja,  he  had  continually  made  voyages  on  the  canal ;  seen 
the  sluices  and  manufactories,  studied  steam  in  all  its  possi- 
ble powers  of  service,  and  spoke  about  a  projected  railway,  in 
Sweden,  between  the  Hjalmar  and  Wener.  He  had,  however, 
never  yet  seen  a  railway,  and  I  described  to  him  these  extended 
roads,  which  sometimes  rise  like  ramparts,  sometimes  like 
towering  bridges,  and  at  times  like  halls  of  miles  in  length, 
cut  through  rocks.     I  also  spoke  of  America  and  England. 

"  One  takes  breakfast  in  London,  and  the  same  day  one 
drinks  tea  in  Edingburgh." 

"  That  I  can  do  ! "  said  the  man,  and  in  as  cool  a  tone  as  if 
no  one  but  himself  could  do  it. 

"  I  can  also,"  said  I ;  "  and  I  have  done  it." 

"  And  who  are  you,  then  ? "  he  asked. 

"  A  common  traveller,"  I  replied  ;  "  a  traveller  who  pays 
for  his  conveyance.     And  who  are  you  ?  " 

The  man  sighed. 

"  You  do  not  know  me  :  my  time  is  past ;  my  power  is  noth- 
ing !     Bloodless  is  stronger  than  I ! "  and  he  was  gone. 

I  then  understood  who  he  was.  Well,  in  what  humor  must 
a  poor  mountain  sprite  be,  who  only  comes  up  every  hundred 
years  to  see  how  things  go  forward  here  on  the  earth  ! 

It  was  the  mountain  sprite  and  no  other,  for  in  our  time 
every  intelligent  person  is  considerably  wiser  \  and  I  looked 
with  a  sort  of  proud  feeling  on  the  present  generation,  on  the 
gushing,  rushing,  whirling  wheel,  the  heavy  blows  of  the  ham- 
mer, the  shears  that  cut  so  softly  through  the  metal  plates,  the 
thick  iron  bars  that  were  broken  like  sticks  of  sealing-wax, 


1  20  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

and  the  music  to  which  the  heart's  pulsations  vibrate  :  "  Banco, 
Banco,  a  hundred  thousand  Banco  !  "  and  all  by  steam  —  by 
mind  and  spirit. 

It  was  evening.  I  stood  on  the  heights  of  Trollhatta's  old 
sluices,  and  saw  the  ships  with  outspread  sails  glide  away 
through  the  meadows  like  spectres,  large  and  white.  The 
sluice  gates  were  opened  with  a  ponderous  and  crashing  sound, 
like  that  related  of  the  copper  gates  of  the  secret  council  in 
German^^  The  evening  was  so  still  that  Trollhatta's  Fall  was 
as  audible  in  the  deep  stillness  as  if  it  were  a  chorus  from  a 
hundred  water-mills  —  ever  one  and  the  same  tone.  In  one, 
however,  there  sounded  a  mightier  crash  that  seemed  to  pass 
sheer  through  the  earth  ;  and  yet  with  all  this  the  endless  si- 
lence of  nature  was  felt.  Suddenly  a  large  bird  flew  out  from 
the  trees,  far  in  the  forest,  down  toward  the  Falls.  Was  it  the 
mountain  sprite  ?  We  will  imagine  so,  for  it  is  the  most  inter- 
esting fancy. 


III. 

THE    BIRD   PHCKNIX. 

IN  the  garden  of  Paradise,  under  the  tree  of  knowledge, 
stood  a  hedge  of  roses.  In  the  first  rose  a  bird  was 
hatched ;  its  flight  was  like  that  of  light,  its  colors  beautiful, 
its  song  magnificent. 

But  when  Eve  plucked  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge, 
when  she  and  Adam  were  driven  from  the  garden  of  Paradise, 
a  spark  from  the  avenging  angel's  flaming  sword  fell  into  the 
bird's-nest  and  kindled  it.  The  bird  died  in  the  flames,  but 
from  the  red  egg  there  flew  a  new  one  —  the  only  one  —  the 
ever  only  bird  Phoenix.  The  legend  states  that  it  takes  up  its 
abode  in  Arabia ;  that  every  hundred  years  it  burns  itself  up 
in  its  nest,  and  that  a  new  Phoenix,  the  only  one  in  the  world, 
flies  out  from  the  red  egg. 

The  bird  hovers  around  us,  rapid  as  the  light,  beautiful  in 
color,  glorious  in  song.  When  the  mother  sits  by  the  child's 
cradle,  it  is  by  the  pillow,  and  with  its  wings  flutters  a  glory 
around  the  child's  head.  It  flies  through  the  chamber  of  con- 
tentment, and  there  is  the  sun's  radiance  within  :  the  poor 
chest  of  drawers  is  odoriferous  with  violets. 

But  the  bird  Phoenix  is  not  alone  Arabia's  bird :  it  flutters 
in  the  rays  of  the  Northern  Lights  on  Lapland's  icy  plains  ;  it 
hops  amongst  the  yellow  flowers  in  Greenland's  short  summer. 
Under  Fahlun's  copper  rocks,  in  England's  coal  mines,  it  flies 
like  a  powdered  moth  over  the  hymn-book  in  the  pious  work- 
man's hands.  It  sails  on  the  lotus-leaf  down  the  sacred  waters 
of  the  Ganges,  and  the  eyes  of  the  Hindoo  girl  glisten  on  see- 
ing it. 

The  bird  Phoenix  !  Dost  thou  not  know  it  ?  The  bird  of 
Paradise,  song's  sacred  swan  !  It  sat  on  the  car  of  Thespis, 
like  a  croaking  raven,  and  flapped  its  black,  dregs-besmeared 


122  PICTURES   OF  SWEDEN. 

wings  ;  over  Iceland's  minstrel-harp  glided  the  swan's  red, 
sounding  bill.  It  sat  on  Shakespeare's  shoulder  like  Odin's 
raven,  and  whispered  in  his  ear  :  "  Immortality  !  "  It  flew  at 
the  minstrel  competition,  through  Wartzburg's  knightly  halls. 

The  bird  Phoenix !  Dost  thou  not  know  it  ?  It  sang  the 
"  Marseillaise  "  for  thee,  and  thou  didst  kiss  the  plume  that  fell 
from  its  wing :  it  came  in  the  lustre  of  Paradise,  and  thou  per- 
haps didst  turn  thyself  away  to  some  poor  sparrow  that  sat 
with  merest  tinsel  on  its  wings. 

Bird  of  Paradise  !  regenerated  every  century,  bred  in  flames, 
dead  in  flames  ;  thy  image  set  in  gold  hangs  in  the  saloons 
of  the  rich,  even  though  thou  fliest  often  astray  and  alone. 
"  The  bird  Phoenix  in  Arabia  "  —  is  but  a  legend. 

In  the  garden  of  Paradise,  when  thou  wast  bred  under  the 
tree  of  knowledge,  in  the  first  rose,  our  Lord  kissed  thee  and 
gave  thee  thy  proper  name  —  Poetry. 


IV. 


KINNAKULLA. 


KINNAKULLA,  Sweden's  hanging  gardens !  Thee  will 
we  visit.  We  stand  by  the  lowest  terrace  in  a  wealth 
of  flowers  and  verdure  ;  the  gray  pointed  wooden  tower  of 
the  ancient  village  church  leans  as  if  it  would  fall  ;  it  pro- 
duces an  effect  in  the  landscape  ;  we  would  not  even  be 
without  that  large  flock  of  birds,  which  just  now  chance  to 
fly  away  over  the  mountain  forest. 

The  high-road  leads  up  the  mountain  with  short  palings  on 
either  side,  between  which  we  see  extensive  plains  with  hops, 
wild  roses,  corn-fields,  and  delightful  beech  woods,  such  as  are 
not  to  be  found  in  any  other  place  in  Sweden.  The  ivy  winds 
itself  around  old  trees  and  stones  —  even  to  the  withered  trunk 
green  leaves  are  lent.  We  look  out  over  the  flat,  extended 
woody  plain  to  the  sunlit  church-tower  of  Mariestad,  which 
shines  like  a  white  sail  on  the  dark  green-sea :  we  look  out 
over  Wener  Lake,  but  cannot  see  its  further  shore.  Skjar- 
gaards'  wood-crowned  rocks  lie  like  a  wreath  down  in  the 
lake  ;  the  steamboat  comes  —  see  1  down  by  the  cliff  under 
the  red-roofed  mansions,  where  the  beech  and  walnut-trees 
grow  in  the  garden. 

The  travellers  land  ;  they  wander  under  shady  trees  away 
over  that  pretty  light-green  meadow,  which  is  enwreathed  by 
gardens  and  woods :  no  English  park  has  a  finer  verdure  than 
the  meadows  near  Hellekis.  They  go  up  to  "  the  grottoes," 
as  they  call  the  projecting  masses  of  red  stone  higher  up, 
which,  being  thoroughly  kneaded  with  petrifactions,  project 
from  the  declivity  of  the  earth,  and  remind  one  of  the  moul- 
dering colossal  tombs  in  the  Campagna  of  Rome.  Some  are 
smooth  and  rounded  off  by  the  action  of  the  water,  others 
bear  the  moss  of  ages,  grass,  and  flowers,  nay,  even  tall  trees. 


124  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

The  travellers  go  from  the  forest  road  up  to  the  top  of 
Kinnakulla,  where  a  stone  is  raised  as  the  goal  of  their  wan- 
derings. The  traveller  reads  in  his  guide-book  about  the  rocky 
strata  of  Kinnakulla  :  "  At  the  bottom  is  found  sandstone,  then 
alum-stone,  then  limestone,  and  above  this  red-stone,  higher 
still  slate,  and  lastly,  trap."  And,  now  that  he  has  seen  this, 
he  descends  again,  and  goes  on  Ijoard.  He  has  seen  Kinna- 
kulla :  yes,  the  stony  rock  here,  amidst  the  swelling  verdure, 
showed  him  one  heavy,  thick  stone  finger  ;  and  most  of  the 
travellers  think  they  are  like  the  devil :  if  they  lay  hold  upon 
one  finger,  they  have  the  body  —  but  it  is  not  always  so.  The 
least  visited  side  of  Kinnakulla  is  just  the  most  characteristic, 
and  thither  will  we  go. 

The  road  still  leads  us  a  long  way  on  this  side  of  the  moun- 
tain, step  by  step  downward,  in  long  terraces  of  rich  fields  : 
further  down,  the  slate-stone  peers  forth  in  flat  layers,  a  green 
moss  upon  it,  and  it  looks  like  threadbare  patches  in  the  green 
velvet  carpet.  The  high-road  leads  over  an  extent  of  ground 
where  the  slate-stone  lies  like  a  firm  floor.  In  the  Campagna 
of  Rome,  one  would  say  it  is  a  piece  of  via  appia^  or  antique 
road  ;  but  it  is  Kinnakulla's  naked  skin  and  bones  that  we 
pass  over.  The  peasant's  house  is  composed  of  large  slate- 
stones,  and  the  roof  is  covered  with  them  ;  one  sees  nothing 
of  wood  except  that  of  the  door,  and  above  it,  of  the  large 
painted  shield,  which  states  to  what  regiment  the  soldier  be- 
longs who  got  this  house  and  plot  of  ground  in  lieu  of  pay. 

We  cast  another  glance  over  Wener,  to  Locko's  old  palace, 
to  the  town  of  Lindkjoping,  and  are  again  near  verdant  fields 
and  noble  trees,  that  cast  their  shadows  over  Blomberg,  where, 
in  the  garden,  the  poet  Geijer's  spirit  seeks  the  flower  of  Kin- 
nakulla in  his  granddaughter,  little  Anna. 

The  plain  expands  here  behind  Kinnakulla  ;  it  extends  for 
miles  around,  toward  the  horizon.  A  shower  stands  in  the 
heavens ;  the  wind  has  increased :  see  how  the  rain  falls  to 
the  ground  like  a  darkening  veil.  The  branches  of  the  trees 
lash  one  another  like  penitential  dryads.  Old  Husaby  church 
lies  near  us,  yonder  ;  the  shower  lashes  the  high  walls,  which 
alone  stand,  of  the  old  Catholic  bishop's  palace.  Crows  and 
ravens  fly  through  the  long   glassless  windows,  which  time 


KINNAKULLA.  1 2  5 

has  made  larger ;  the  rain  pours  down  the  crevices  in  the  old 
gray  walls,  as  if  they  were  now  to  be  loosened  stone  from 
stone  :  but  the  church  stands  —  old  Husaby  church  —  so  gray 
and  venerable,  with  its  thick  walls,  its  small  windows,  and  its 
three  spires  stuck  against  each  other,  and  standing,  like  nuts, 
in  a  cluster. 

The  old  trees  in  the  church-yard  cast  their  shade  over  an- 
cient graves.  Where  is  the  district's  "  Old  Mortality,"  who 
weeds  the  grass,  and  explains  the  ancient  memorials  ?  Large 
granite  stones  are  laid  here  in  the  form  of  coffins,  ornamented 
with  rude  carving  from  the  times  of  Catholicism.  The  old 
church-door  creaks  in  the  hinges.  We  stand  within  its  walls, 
where  the  vaulted  roof  was  filled  for  centuries  with  the  fra- 
grance of  incense,  with  monks,  and  with  the  song  of  the  chor- 
isters. Now  it  is  still  and  mute  here  :  the  old  men  in  their 
monastic  dresses  have  passed  into  their  graves ;  the  blooming 
boys  that  swung  the  censer  are  in  their  graves ;  the  congrega- 
tion —  many  generations  —  all  in  their  graves  ;  but  the  church 
still  stands  the  same.  The  moth-eaten,  dusty  cowls,  and  the 
bishops'  mantle,  from  the  days  of  the  cloister,  hang  in  the  old 
oak  presses ;  and  old  manuscripts,  half  eaten  up  by  the  rats, 
lie  strewed  about  on  the  shelves  in  the  sacristy. 

In  the  left  aisle  of  the  church  there  still  stands,  and  has 
stood  time  out  of  mind,  a  carved  image  of  wood,  painted  in 
various  colors  which  are  still  strong  ;  it  is  the  Virgin  Mary 
with  the  child  Jesus.  Fresh  flower  wreaths  are  hung  around 
hers  and  the  child's  head  ;  fragrant  garlands  are  twined 
around  the  pedestal,  as  festive  as  on  Madonna's  birthday 
feast  in  the  times  of  Popery.  The  young  folks  who  have  been 
confirmed,  have  this  day,  on  receiving  the  sacrament  for  the 
first  time,  ornamented  this  old  image  —  nay,  even  set  the 
priest's  name  in  flowers  upon  the  altar ;  and  he  has,  to  our 
astonishment,  let  it  remain  there. 

The  image  of  Madonna  seems  to  have  become  young  by 
the  fresh  wreaths  :  the  fragrant  flowers  here  have  a  power 
like  that  of  poetry  —  they  bring  back  the  days  of  past 
centuries  to  our  own  times.  It  is  as  if  the  extinguished 
glory  around  the  head  shone  again  ;  the  flowers  exhale  per- 
fume :  it  is  as  if  incense  again  streamed  through  the  aisles  of 


126  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

the  church ;  it  shines  around  the  altar  as  if  the  consecrated 
tapers  were  Hghted  —  it  is  a  sunbeam  through  the  window. 

The  sky  witliout  has  become  clear :  we  drive  again  in  under 
eleven,  the  barren  side  of  Kinnakulla  :  it  is  a  rocky  wall,  dif- 
ferent from  almost  all  the  others.  The  red  stone  blocks  lie, 
strata  on  strata,  forming  fortifications  with  embrasures,  project- 
ing wings,  and  round  towers ;  but  shaken,  split,  and  fallen  in 
ruins  —  it  is  an  architectural,  fantastic  freak  of  nature.  A 
brook  falls  gushing  down  from  one  of  the  highest  points  of  the 
eleven,  and  drives  a  little  mill.  It  looks  like  a  plaything 
which  the  mountain  sprite  had  placed  there  and  forgotten. 

Large  masses  of  fallen  stone  blocks  lie  dispersed  round 
about ;  nature  has  spread  them  in  the  forms  of  carved  cor- 
nices. The  most  significant  way  of  describing  Kinnakulla's 
rocky  wall  is  to  call  it  the  ruins  of  a  mile-long  Hindostanee 
temple :  these  rocks  might  be  easily  transformed  by  the 
hammer  into  sacred  places  like  the  Ghaut  Mountains  at 
Ellora.  If  a  Brahmin  were  to  come  to  Kinnakulla's  rocky 
wall,  he  would  recognize  the  temple  of  Cailasa,  and  find  in 
the  clefts  and  crevices  whole  representations  from  Ramayana 
and  Mahabharata.  If  one  should  then  speak  to  him  in  a  sort 
of  gibberish  —  no  matter  what,  only  that,  by  the  help  of  Brock- 
haus's  "  Conversation-Lexicon  "  one  might  mingle  therein  the 
names  of  some  of  the  Indian  spectacles,  —  Sakantala,  Vikra- 
morwasi,  Uttaram  Ramatscheritram,  etc.,  — the  Brahmin  would 
be  completely  mystified,  and  write  in  his  note-book  :  "  Kinna- 
kulla is  the  remains  of  a  temple,  like  those  we  have  in  Ellora ; 
and  the  inhabitants  themselves  know  the  most  considerable 
works  in  our  oldest  Sanskrit  literature,  and  speak  in  an  ex- 
tremely spiritual  manner  about  them."  But  no  Brahmin 
comes  to  the  high  rocky  walls  —  not  to  speak  of  the  company 
from  the  steamboat,  who  are  already  far  over  Lake  Wener. 
They  have  seen  wood-crowned  Kinnakulla,  Sweden's  hanging 
gardens  —  and  we  also  have  now  seen  them. 


V. 


GRANDMOTHER. 

GRANDMOTHER  is  so  old,  she  has  so  many  wrinkles, 
and  her  hair  is  quite  white  ;  but  her  eyes  !  they  shine 
like  two  stars,  nay,  they  are  much  finer  —  they  are  so  mild, 
so  blissful  to  look  into.  And  then  she  knows  the  most  amus- 
ing stories,  and  she  has  a  gown  with  large,  large  flowers  on  it, 
and  it  is  of  such  thick  silk  that  it  actually  rustles.  Grand- 
mother knows  so  much,  for  she  has  lived  long  before  father 
and  mother  —  that  is  quite  sure. 

Grandmother  has  a  psalm-book  with  thick  silver  clasps, 
and  in  that  book  she  often  reads.  In  the  middle  of  it  lies  a 
rose,  which  is  quite  flat  and  dry  ;  but  it  is  not  so  pretty  as  the 
roses  she  has  in  the  glass,  yet  she  smiles  the  kindliest  to  it, 
nay,  even  tears  come  into  her  eyes ! 

Why  does  Grandmother  look  thus  on  the  withered  flower 
in  the  old  book  ?     Do  you  know  why  ? 

Every  time  that  Grandmother's  tears  fall  on  the  withered 
flower  the  colors  become  fresher ;  the  rose  then  swells,  and 
the  whole  room  is  filled  with  fragrance  ;  the  walls  sink  as  if 
they  were  but  mists  ;  and  round  about  it  is  the  green,  the 
delightful  grove,  where  the  sun  shines  between  the  leaves. 
And  Grandmother  —  yes,  she  is  quite  young  ;  she  is  a  beauti- 
ful girl,  with  yellow  hair,  with  round  red  cheeks,  pretty  and 
charming  —  no  rose  is  fresher.  Yet  the  eyes,  the  mild,  bliss- 
ful eyes,  —  yes,  they  are  still  Grandmother's !  By  her  side 
sits  a  man,  young  and  strong  ;  he  presents  the  rose  to  her  and 
she  smiles.  Yet  grandmother  does  not  smile  so,  —  yes  ;  the 
smile  comes,  —  he  is  gone.  Many  thoughts  and  many  forms 
go  past.  That  handsome  man  is  gone  ;  the  rose  lies  in  the 
psalm-book,  and  grandmother,  —  yes,  she  again  sits  like  an 
old  woman,  and  looks  on  the  withered  rose  that  lies  in  the 
book. 

Now  grandmother  is  dead  ! 


128  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

She  sat  in  the  arm-chair,  and  told  a  long,  long,  sweet  story. 
"  And  now  it  is  ended  !  "  said  she,  "  and  I  am  quite  tired  : 
let  me  now  sleep  a  little  !  "  And  so  she  laid  her  head  back 
to  rest.  She  drew  her  breath,  she  slept,  but  it  became  more 
and  more  still ;  and  her  face  was  so  full  of  peace  and  happi- 
ness —  it  was  as  if  the  sun's  rays  passed  over  it.  She  smiled, 
and  then  they  said  that  she  was  dead. 

She  was  laid  in  the  black  coffin  ;  she  lay  swathed  in  the 
white  linen :  she  was  so  pretty,  and  yet  the  eyes  were  closed 
—  but  all  the  wrinkles  were  gone.  She  lay  with  a  smile 
around  her  mouth  :  her  hair  was  so  silvery  white,  so  venera. 
ble,  one  was  not  at  all  afraid  to  look  on  the  dead,  for  it  was 
the  sweet,  benign  grandmother.  And  the  psalm-book  was 
laid  in  the  coffin  under  her  head  (she  herself  had  requested 
it),  and  the  rose  lay  in  the  old  book  —  and  then  they  buried 
grandmother. 

On  the  grave,  close  under  the  church  wall,  they  planted  a 
rose-tree,  and  it  became  full  of  roses,  and  the  nightingale  sang 
over  it,  and  the  organ  in  the  church  played  the  finest  psalms 
that  were  in  the  book  under  the  dead  one's  head.  And  the 
moon  shone  straight  down  on  the  grave  —  but  the  dead  was 
not  there  :  every  child  could  go  quietly  in  the  night-time  and 
pluck  a  rose  there  by  the  church-yard  wall.  The  dead  know 
more  than  all  we  living  know — the  dead  know  the  awe  we 
should  feel  at  something  so  strange  as  their  coming  to  us. 
The  dead  are  better  than  us  all,  and  therefore  they  do  not 
come. 

There  is  earth  over  the  coffin,  there  is  earth  within  it ;  the 
psalm-book  with  its  leaves  is  dust,  the  rose  with  all  its  recol- 
lections has  gone  to  dust.  But  above  it  bloom  new  roses, 
above  it  sings  the  nightingale,  and  the  organ  plays :  we 
think  of  the  old  grandmother  with  the  mild,  eternally  young 
eyes.  Eyes  can  never  die  !  Ours  shall  once  again  see  her, 
young  and  beautiful,  as  when  she  for  the  first  time  kissed  the 
fresh  red  rose  which  is  now  dust  in  the  grave. 


VI. 

THE   PRISON-CELLS. 

BY  separation  from  other  men,  by  solitary  confinement,  in 
continual  silence,  the  criminal  is  to  be  punished  and 
amended  ;  therefore  were  prison-cells  contrived.  In  Sweden 
there  were  several,  and  new  ones  have  been  built.  I  visited 
one  for  the  first  time  in  Mariestad.  This  building  lies  close 
outside  the  town,  by  a  running  water,  and  in  a  beautiful  land- 
scape. It  resembles  a  large,  white  washed  summer  residence, 
window  above  window. 

But  we  soon  discover  that  the  stillness  of  the  grave  rests 
over  it.  It  is  as  if  no  one  dwelt  here,  or  like  a  deserted  man- 
sion in  the  time  of  the  plague.  The  gates  in  the  walls  are 
locked  :  one  of  them  is  opened  for  us  :  the  jailer  stands  with 
his  bunch  of  keys  :  the  yard  is  empty,  but  clean  —  even  the 
grass  weeded  away  between  the  stone  paving.  We  enter  the 
waiting-room,  where  the  prisoner  is  received  :  we  are  shown 
the  bathing-room,  into  which  he  is  first  led.  We  now  ascend 
a  flight  of  stairs,  and  are  in  a  large  hall,  extending  the  whole 
length  and  breadth  of  the  building.  Galleries  run  along  the 
floors,  and  between  these  the  priest  has  his  pulpit,  where  he 
preaches  on  Sundays  to  an  invisible  congregation.  All  the 
doors  facing  the  gallery  are  half  opened :  the  prisoners  hear 
the  priest,  but  cannot  see  him,  nor  he  them.  The  whole  is  a 
well-built  machine  —  a  nightmare  for  the  spirit.  In  the  door 
of  every  cell  there  is  fixed  a  glass,  about  the  size  of  the  eye  : 
a  slide  covers  it,  and  the  jailer  can,  unobserved  by  the  pris- 
oner, see  everything  he  does ;  but  he  must  come  gently,  noise- 
lessly, for  the  prisoner's  ear  is  wonderfully  quickened  by  soli- 
tude. I  turned  the  slide  quite  softly,  and  looked  into  the 
closed  space,  when  the  prisoner's  eye  immediately  met  mine. 
It  is  airy,  clean,  and  light  within  the  cell,  but  the  window  is 
placed  so  high  that  it  is  impossible  to  look  out  of  it.  A  high 
9 


I  30  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

Stool,  made  fast  to  a  sort  of  table,  and  a  hammock,  which  can 
be  hung  upon  hooks  under  the  ceiling,  and  covered  with  a 
quilt,  compose  the  whole  furniture. 

Several  cells  were  opened  for  us.  In  one  of  these  was  a 
young  and  extremely  pretty  girl.  She  had  lain  down  in  her 
hammock,  but  sprang  out  directly  the  door  was  opened,  and 
her  first  employment  was  to  lift  her  hammock  down,  and  roll 
it  together.  On  the  little  table  stood  a  pitcher  with  water, 
and  by  it  lay  the  remains  of  some  oatmeal  cakes,  besides  the 
Bible  and  some  psalms. 

In  the  cell  close  by  sat  a  child's  murderess.  I  saw  her 
only  through  the  little  glass  in  the  door.  She  had  heard  our 
footsteps  ;  heard  us  speak  ;  but  she  sat  still,  squeezed  up  into 
the  corner  by  the  door,  as  if  she  would  hide  herself  as  much 
as  possible  :  her  back  was  bent,  her  head  almost  on  a  level 
with  her  lap,  and  her  hands  folded  over  it.  They  said  this 
unfortunate  creature  was  very  young.  Two  brothers  sat  here 
in  two  different  cells  :  they  were  punished  for  horse  stealing  ; 
the  one  was  still  quite  a  boy. 

In  one  cell  was  a  poor  servant  girl.  They  said  :  "  She  has 
no  place  of  resort,  and  is  without  a  situation,  and  therefore  she 
is  placed  here."  I  thought  I  had  not  heard  rightly,  and  re- 
peated my  question,  "  why  she  was  here,"  but  got  the  same 
answer.  Still  I  would  rather  believe  that  I  had  misunderstood 
what  was  said  —  it  would  otherwise  be  abominable. 

Outside,  in  the  free  sunshine,  it  is  the  busy  day  ;  in  here  it 
is  always  midnight's  stillness.  The  spider  that  w^eaves  its 
web  down  the  wall,  the  swallow  which  perhaps  flies  a  single 
time  close  under  the  panes  there  high  up  in  the  wall  —  even 
the  stranger's  footstep  in  the  gallery,  as  he  passes  the  cell- 
doors,  is  an  event  in  that  mute,  solitary  life,  w'here  the  pris- 
oners' thoughts  are  wrapped  up  in  themselves.  One  must 
read  of  the  martyr-filled  prisons  of  the  Inquisition,  of  the 
crowds  chained  together  in  the  Bagnes,  of  the  hot  lead  cham- 
bers of  Venice,  and  the  black,  wet  gulf  of  the  wells  —  be  thor- 
oughly shaken  by  these  pictures  of  misery,  that  we  maj'  with 
a  quieter  pulsation  of  the  heart  wander  through  the  gallery  of 
the  prison-cells.  Here  is  light,  here  is  air ;  here  it  is  more 
humane.  Where  the  sunbeam  shines  mildly  in  on  the  pris- 
oner, there  also  will  the  radiance  of  God  shine  into  the  heart. 


VII. 

BEGGAR    BOYS. 

THE  painter  Callot  —  who  does  not  know  the  name,  at 
least  from  Hoffmann's  "  in  Callot's  manner  ?  "  —  has 
given  a  few  excellent  pictures  of  Italian  beggars.  One  of  these 
is  a  fellow  on  whom  the  one  rag  lashes  the  other  :  he  carries  his 
huge  bundle  and  a  large  flag  with  the  inscription,  "  Capitano 
de  Baroni."  One  does  not  think  that  there  can  in  reality  be 
found  such  a  wandering  rag-shop,  and  we  confess  that  in  Italy 
itself  we  have  not  seen  any  such  ;  for  the  beggar-boy  there, 
whose  whole  clothing  often  consists  only  of  a  waistcoat,  has  in 
it  not  sufficient  costume  for  such  rags. 

But  we  see  it  in  the  North.  By  the  canal  road  between  the 
Wener  and  Wigen,  on  the  bare,  dry,  rocky  plain  there  stood, 
like  beauty's  thistles  in  that  poor  landscape,  a  couple  of  beg- 
gar-boys, so  ragged,  so  tattered,  so  picturesquely  dirty,  that  we 
thought  we  had  Callot's  originals  before  us,  or  that  it  was  an 
arrangement  of  some  industrious  parents,  who  would  awaken 
the  traveller's  attention  and  benevolence.  Nature  does  not 
form  such  things :  there  was  something  so  bold  in  the  hanging 
on  of  the  rags,  that  each  boy  instantly  became  a  Capitano  de 
Baroni. 

The  younger  of  the  two  had  something  round  him  that 
had  certainly  once  been  the  jacket  of  a  very  corpulent  man, 
for  it  reached  almost  to  the  boy's  ankles  ;  the  whole  hung  fast 
by  a  piece  of  the  sleeve  and  a  single  brace,  made  from  the 
seam  of  what  was  now  the  rest  of  the  lining.  It  was  very  dif- 
ficult to  see  the  transition  from  jacket  to  trousers,  the  rags 
glided  so  into  one  another.  The  whole  clothing  was  arranged 
so  as  to  give  him  an  air-bath :  there  were  draught  holes  on  all 
sides  and  ends  ;  a  yellow  linen  clout  fastened  to  the  nethermost 
regions  seemed  as  if  it  were  intended  for  a  shirt.    A  very  large 


132 


PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 


Straw  hat,  that  had  certainly  been  driven  over  several  times,  was 
stuck  sideways  on  his  head,  and  allowed  the  boy's  wiry,  flaxen 
hair  to  grow  freely  through  the  opening  where  the  crown  should 
have  been  :  the  naked  brown  shoulder,  and  upper  part  of  the 
arm  which  was  just  as  brown,  were  the  prettiest  of  the  whole. 

The  other  boy  had  only  a  pair  of  trousers  on.  They  were 
also  ragged,  but  the  rags  were  bound  fast  into  the  pockets  with 
packthread  ;  one  string  round  the  ankles,  one  under  the  knee, 
and  another  round  about  the  waist.  He,  however,  kept  to- 
gether what  he  had,  and  that  is  always  respectable. 

"  Be  off!  "  shouted  the  captain,  from  the  vessel ;  and  the 
boy  with  the  tied-up  rags  turned  round,  and  we  —  yes,  we  saw 
nothing  but  packthread,  in  bows,  genteel  bows.  The  front 
part  of  the  boy  only  was  covered :  he  had  only  the  foreparts 
of  trousers  —  the  rest  was  packthread,  the  bare,  naked  pack- 
thread. 


VIII. 

WADSTENA. 

IN  Sweden,  it  is  not  only  in  the  country,  but  even  in  several 
of  the  provincial  towns,  that  one  sees  whole  houses  of 
grass  turf,  or  with  roofs  of  grass  turf;  and  some  are  so  low  that 
one  might  easily  spring  up  to  the  roof,  and  sit  on  the  fresh 
greensward.  In  the  early  spring,  whilst  the  fields  are  still  cov- 
ered with  snow,  but  which  is  melted  on  the  roof,  this  turf 
affords  the  first  announcement  of  spring,  with  the  young  sprout- 
ing grass  where  the  sparrow  twitters,  "  Spring  comes  !  " 

Between  Motala  and  Wadstena,  close  by  the  high-road, 
stands  a  grass-turf  house  —  one  of  the  most  picturesque.  It 
has  but  one  window,  broader  than  it  is  high,  and  a  wild  rose 
branch  forms  the  curtain  outside. 

We  see  it  in  the  spring.  The  roof  is  so  delightfully  fresh 
with  grass,  it  has  quite  the  tint  of  velvet ;  and  close  to  it  is  the 
chimney,  nay,  even  a  cherry-tree  grows  out  of  its  side,  now  full 
of  flowers  :  the  wind  shakes  the  leaves  down  on  a  little  lamb 
that  is  tethered  to  the  chimney.  It  is  the  only  lamb  of  the 
family.  The  old  dame  who  lives  here  lifts  it  up  to  its  place 
herself  in  the  morning,  and  lifts  it  down  again  in  the  evening, 
to  give  it  a  place  in  the  room.  The  roof  can  just  bear  the 
little  lamb,  but  not  more — this  is  an  experience  and  a  cer- 
tainty. Last  autumn  —  and  at  that  time  the  grass  turf  roofs 
are  covered  with  flowers,  mostly  blue  and  yellow,  the  Swedish 
colors  —  there  grew  here  a  flower  of  a  rare  kind.  It  shone 
in  the  eyes  of  the  old  Professor,  who  on  his  botanical  tour 
came  past  here.  The  Professor  was  quickly  up  on  the  roof, 
and  just  as  quick  was  one  of  his  booted  legs  through  it,  and 
so  was  the  other  leg,  and  then  half  of  the  Professor  himself  — 
that  part  where  the  head  does  not  sit ;  and  as  the  house 
had  no   ceiling,  his  legs  hovered  right  over  the  old  dame's 


134 


PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 


head,  and  that  in  very  close  contact.  But  now  the  roof  is 
again  whole  ;  the  fresh  grass  grows  where  learning  sank  j  the 
little  lamb  bleats  up  there,  and  the  old  dame  stands  beneath, 
in  the  low  doorway,  with  folded  hands,  with  a  smile  on  her 
mouth,  rich  in  remembrances,  legends,  and  songs,  —  rich  in  her 
only  lamb,  on  which  the  cherry-tree  strews  its  flower-blossoms 
in  the  warm  spring  sun. 

As  a  background  to  this  picture  lies  the  Wetter  —  the  bot- 
tomless lake  as  the  commonalty  believe  —  with  its  transparent 
water,  its  sea-like  waves,  and  in  calm,  with  "  Hegring,"  or  Fata 
Morgana,  on  its  steel-like  surface.  We  see  Wadstena  palace 
and  town,  "  the  city  of  the  dead,"  as  a  Swedish  author  has 
called  it  —  Sweden's  Herculaneum  reminiscence  city.  The 
grass  turf  house  must  be  our  box,  whence  we  see  the  rich 
mementos  pass  before  us  —  memorials  from  the  chronicle  of 
saints,  the  chronicle  of  kings,  and  the  love  songs  that  still  live 
with  the  old  dame,  who  stands  in  her  low  house  there,  where 
the  lamb  crops  the  grass  on  the  roof.  We  hear  her,  and  we 
see  with  her  eyes  ;  we  go  from  the  grass  turf  house  up  to  the 
town,  to  the  other  grass  turf  houses,  where  poor  women  sit 
and  make  lace,  once  the  celebrated  work  of  the  rich  nuns  here 
in  the  cloister's  wealthy  time. 

How  still,  solitary,  and  grass-grown  are  these  streets  !  We 
stop  by  an  old  wall,  mouldy-green  for  centuries  already. 
Within  it  stood  the  cloister  ;  now  there  is  but  one  of  its  wings 
remaining.  There,  within  that  now  poor  garden,  still  bloom 
St.  Bridget's  leek,  and  once  rare  flowers.  King  John  and 
the  Abbess,  Ana  Gylte,  wandered  one  evening  there,  and  the 
King  cunningly  asked,  "  If  the  maidens  in  the  cloister  were 
never  tempted  by  love  ?  "  and  the  Abbess  answered,  as  she 
pointed  to  a  bird  that  just  then  flew  over  them  :  "  It  may  hap- 
pen !  One  cannot  prevent  the  bird  from  flying  over  the  gar- 
den; but  one  may  surely  prevent  it  from  building  its  nest 
there !  " 

Thus  thought  the  pious  Abbess,  and  there  have  been  sisters 
who  thought  and  acted  like  her.  But  it  is  quite  as  sure  that 
in  the  same  garden  there  stood  a  pear-tree,  called  the  tree 
of  death ;  and  the  legend  says  of  it,  that  whoever  approached 
and  plucked  its  fruit  would  soon  die.     Red  and  yellow  pears 


WADSTENA. 


135 


weighed  down  its  branches  to  the  ground.  The  trunk  was 
unusually  large  ;  the  grass  grew  high  around  it,  and  many 
a  morning  hour  was  it  seen  trodden  down.  Who  had  been 
here  during  the  night  ? 

A  storm  arose  one  evening  from  the  lake,  and  the  next 
morning  the  large  tree  was  found  thrown  down  ;  the  trunk 
was  broken,  and  out  from  it  there  rolled  infants'  bones  —  the 
white  bones  of  murdered  children  lay  shining  in  the  grass. 

The  pious  but  love-sick  sister  Ingrid,  this  Wadstena's  He- 
loise,  writes  to  her  heart's  beloved,  Axel  Nilsson,  —  for  the 
chronicles  have  preserved  it  for  us,  — 

"  Broderne  og  Systarne  leka  paa  Spil,  drikke  Vin  och  dansa 
med  hvarandra  i  Tradgården  !  " 

(The  brothers  and  sisters  amuse  themselves  in  play,  drink 
wine,  and  dance  with  one  another  in  the  garden.) 

These  words  may  explain  to  us  the  history  of  the  pear- 
tree  :  one  is  led  to  think  of  the  orgies  of  the  nun-phantoms 
in  "  Robert  le  Diable,"  the  daughters  of  sin  on  consecrated 
ground.  But  "  Judge  not,  lest  ye  be  judged,"  said  the  purest 
and  best  of  men  that  was  born  of  woman.  We  will  read 
Sister  Ingrid's  letter,  sent  secretly  to  him  she  truly  loved. 
In  it  lies  the  history  of  many,  clear  and  human  to  us  :  — 

"I  dare  not  confess  to  any  other  than  to  thee  that  I  am 
not  able  to  repeat  my  Ave  Maria  or  read  my  Paternoster, 
without  calling  thee  to  mind.  Nay,  even  in  the  mass  itself 
thy  comely  face  appears,  and  our  affectionate  intercourse 
recurs  to  me.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  cannot  confess  to  any 
other  human  being  —  the  Virgin  Mary,  St.  Bridget,  and  the 
whole  host  of  heaven  will  perhaps  punish  me  for  it.  But 
thou  knowest  well,  my  heart's  beloved,  that  I  have  never 
consented  with  my  free  will  to  these  rules.  My  parents,  it  is 
true,  have  placed  my  body  in  this  prison,  but  the  heart  cannot 
so  soon  be  weaned  from  the  world." 

How  touching  is  the  distress  of  young  hearts  !  It  offers 
itself  to  us  from  the  mouldy  parchment,  it  resounds  in  old 
songs.  Beg  the  gray-haired  old  dame  in  the  grass  turf  house 
to  sing  to  thee  of  the  young,  heavy  sorrow ;  of  the  saving 
angel  —  and  the  angel  came  in  many  shapes.  You  will  hear 
the  song  of  the  cloister  robbery  ;  of  Herr  Carl  who  was  near 


I  36  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

to  deatli  when  the  young  nun  entered  the  dark  chamber, 
sat  down  by  his  feet  and  whispered  how  sincerely  she  had 
loved  him,  and  the  knight  rose  from  his  bier  and  bore  her 
away  to  marriage  and  pleasure  in  Copenhagen.  And  all  the 
nuns  of  the  cloister  sang  :  "  Christ,  grant  that  such  an  angel 
were  to  come,  and  take  both  me  and  thee ! " 

The  old  dame  will  also  sing  for  thee  of  the  beautiful  Agda 
and  Oluf  Tyste  ;  and  at  once  the  cloister  is  revived  in  its 
splendor,  the  bells  ring,  stone  houses  arise — they  even  rise 
from  the  waters  of  the  Wetter :  the  little  town  becomes 
churches  and  towers.  The  streets  are  crowded  with  great, 
with  sober,  well-dressed  persons.  Down  the  stairs  of  the 
town-hall  descends,  with  a  sword  by  his  side  and  in  fur-lined 
cloak,  the  most  wealthy  citizen  of  Wadstena,  the  merchant 
Michael.  By  his  side  is  his  j^oung,  beautiful  daughter  Agda, 
richly  dressed  and  happy ;  youth  in  beauty,  youth  in  mind. 
All  eyes  are  turned  on  the  rich  man  —  and  yet  forget  him 
for  her,  the  beautiful.  Life's  best  blessings  await  her  ;  her 
thoughts  soar  upward,  her  m'ind  aspires  ;  her  future  is  hap- 
piness !  These  were  the  thoughts  of  the  many  —  and  amongst 
the  many  there  was  one  who  saw  her  as  Romeo  saw  Juliet,  as 
Adam  saw  Eve  in  the  garden  of  Paradise.  That  one  was 
Oluf,  the  handsomest  young  man,  but  poor  as  Agda  was  rich. 
And  he  must  conceal  his  love  ;  but  as  only  he  lived  in  it, 
only  he  knew  of  it;  so  he  became  mute  and  still,  and  after 
months  had  passed  away,  the  town's-folk  called  him  Oluf 
Tyste  (Oluf  the  silent). 

Nights  and  days  he  combated  his  love ;  nights  and  days 
he  suffered  inexpressible  torment ;  but  at  last  —  one  dew- 
drop  or  one  sunbeam  alone  is  necessary  for  the  ripe  rose  to 
open  its  leaves  —  he  must  tell  it  to  Agda.  And  she  listened 
to  his  words,  was  terrified,  and  sprang  away ;  but  the  thought 
remained  with  him,  and  the  heart  went  after  the  thought  and 
stayed  there  ;  she  returned  his  love  strongly  and  truly,  but 
in  modesty  and  honor ;  and  therefore  poor  Oluf  came  to 
the  rich  merchant  and  sought  his  daughter's  hand.  But 
Michael  shut  the  bolts  of  his  door  and  his  heart  too.  He 
would  neither  listen  to  tears  nor  supplications,  but  only  to  his 
own  will ;  and  as  little  Agda  also  kept  firm  to  her  will,  her 


WADSTENA.  1 37 

father  placed  her  in  Wadstena  cloister.    And  Oluf  was  obliged 
to  submit,  as  it  is  recorded  in  the  old  song,  that  they  cast 

"  den  svarta  Muld 
Alt  ofver  skon  Agdas  arm."  ^ 

She  was  dead  to  him  and  the  world.  But  one  night,  in 
tempestuous  weather,  whilst  the  rain  streamed  down,  Oluf 
Tyste  came  to  the  cloister  wall,  threw  his  rope-ladder  over 
it,  and  however  high  the  Wetter  lifted  its  waves,  Oluf  and 
little  Agda  flew  away  over  its  fathomless  depths  that  autumn 
night. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  nuns  missed  little  Agda.  What 
a  screaming  and  shouting  —  the  cloister  is  disgraced!  The 
Abbess  and  Michael  the  merchant  swore  that  vengeance  and 
death  should  reach  the  fugitives.  Lindkjoping's  severe  bishop, 
Hans  Brask,  fulminated  his  ban  over  them,  but  they  were 
already  across  the  waters  of  the  Wetter  ;  they  had  reached 
the  shores  of  the  Wener,  they  were  on  Kinnakulla,  with  one 
of  Olufs  friends,  who  owned  the  delightful  Hellekis. 

Here  their  marriage  was  to  be  celebrated.  The  guests 
were  invited,  and  a  monk  from  the  neighboring  cloister  of 
Husaby  was  fetched  to  marry  them.  Then  came  the  mes- 
senger with  the  bishop's  excommunication,  and  this  —  but 
not  the  marriage  ceremony  —  was  read  to  them. 

All  turned  away  from  them  terrified.  The  owner  of  the 
house,  the  friend  of  Olufs  youth,  pointed  to  the  open  door 
and  bade  them  depart  instantly.  Oluf  only  requested  a  car 
and  horse  wherewith  to  convey  away  his  exhausted  Agda  ;  but 
the)'  threw  sticks  and  stones  after  them,  and  Oluf  was  obliged 
to  bear  his  poor  bride  in  his  arms  far  into  the  forest. 

Heavy  and  bitter  was  their  wandering.  At  last,  however, 
they  found  a  home  :  it  was  in  Guldkroken,  in  West  Gothland. 
An  honest  old  couple  gave  them  shelter  and  a  place  by  the 
hearth  :  they  stayed  there  till  Christmas,  and  on  that  holy  eve 
there  was  to  be  a  real  Christmas  festival.  The  guests  were 
invited,  the  furmenty  set  forth  ;  and  now  came  the  clergyman 
of  the  parish  to  say  prayers  ;  but  whilst  he  spoke  he  recog- 
nized Oluf  and  Agda,  and  the  prayer  became  a  curse  upon  the 
1  The  black  mould  over  the  beautiful  Adda's  arm. 


I  ^S  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

two.  Anxiety  and  terror  came  over  all  ;  they  drove  the  ex- 
communicated pair  out  of  the  house,  out  into  the  biting  frost, 
where  the  wolves  went  in  flocks,  and  the  bear  was  no  stranger. 
And  Oluf  felled  wood  in  the  forest,  and  kindled  a  fire  to 
frighten  away  the  noxious  animals  and  keep  life  in  Agda  — 
he  thought  that  she  must  die.  But  just  then  she  was  stronger 
of  the  two. 

"  Our  Lord  is  almighty  and  gracious ;  He  will  not  leave 
us  ! "  said  she.  "  He  has  one  here  on  the  earth,  one  who 
can  save  us,  one  who  has  proved,  like  us,  what  it  is  to  wander 
amongst  enemies  and  wild  animals.  It  is  the  King  —  Gusta- 
vus  Vasa !  He  has  languished  like  us  !  —  gone  astray  in  Dale- 
carlia  in  the  deep  snow  !  he  has  suffered,  endured,  knows  it  — 
he  can  and  he  will  help  us  !  " 

The  King  was  in  Wadstena.  He  had  called  together  the 
representatives  of  the  kingdom  there.  He  dwelt  in  the  clois- 
ter itself,  even  there  where  little  Agda,  if  the  King  did  not 
grant  her  pardon,  must  suffer  what  the  angry  Abbess  dared  to 
advise  :  penance  and  a  painful  death  awaited  her. 

Through  forests  and  by  untrodden  paths,  in  storm  and  snow, 
Oluf  and  Agda  came  to  Wadstena.  They  were  seen :  some 
showed  fear,  others  insulted  and  threatened  them.  The 
guard  of  the  cloister  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  seeing 
the  two  sinners,  who  dared  to  ask  admission  to  the  King. 

"  I  will  receive  and  hear  all,"  was  his  royal  message,  and 
the  two  lovers  fell  trembling  at  his  feet. 

And  the  King  looked  mildly  on  them  ;  and  as  he  long  had 
had  the  intention  to  humiliate  the  proud  Bishop  of  Lindkjop- 
ing,  the  moment  was  not  unfavorable  to  them ;  the  King 
listened  to  the  relation  of  their  lives  and  sufferings,  and  gave 
them  his  word  that  the  excommunication  should  be  annulled. 
He  then  placed  their  hands  one  in  the  other,  and  said  that 
the  priest  should  also  do  the  same  soon  ;  and  he  promised 
them  his  royal  protection  and  favor. 

And  old  Michael,  the  merchant,  who  feared  the  King's 
anger,  with  which  he  was  threatened,  became  so  mild  and 
gentle,  that  he,  as  the  King  commanded,  not  only  opened  his 
house  and  his  arms  to  Oulf  and  Agda,  but  displayed  all  his 
riches  on  the  wedding-day  of  the  young  couple.     The  mar- 


WADSTENA. 


139 


riage  ceremony  took  place  in  the  cloister  church,  whither  the 
King  himself  led  the  bride,  and  where,  by  his  command,  all 
the  nuns  were  obliged  to  be  present,  in  order  to  give  still 
more  ecclesiastical  pomp  to  the  festival.  And  many  a  heart 
there  silently  recalled  the  old  song  about  the  cloister  robbery, 
and  looked  at  Oluf  Tyste  :  — 


"  Krist  gif  en  sadan  Angel 
Kom,  tog  båd  mig  och  dig  ! 


"1 


The  sun  now  shines  through  the  open  cloister-gate.  Let 
truth  shine  into  our  hearts ;  let  us  likewise  acknowledge 
the  cloister's  share  of  God's  influence.  Every  cell  was  not 
quite  a  prison,  where  the  imprisoned  bird  flew  in  despair 
against  the  window-pane ;  here  sometimes  was  sunshine  from 
God  in  the  heart  and  mind  ;  from  hence  also  went  out  comfort 
and  blessings.  If  the  dead  could  rise  from  their  graves  they 
would  bear  witness  thereof :  if  we  saw  them  in  the  moonlight 
lift  the  tombstone  and  step  forth  toward  the  cloister,  they 
would  say,  "  Blessed  be  these  walls  !  "  if  we  saw  them  in  the 
sunlight  hovering  in  the  rainbow's  gleam,  they  would  say, 
"  Blessed  be  these  walls  !  " 

How  changed  the  rich,  mighty  Wadstena  cloister,  where  the 
first  daughters  of  the  land  were  nuns,  where  the  young  nobles 
of  the  land  wore  the  monk's  cowl.  Hither  they  made  pil- 
grimages from  Italy,  from  Spain  :  from  far  distant  lands,  in 
snow  and  cold,  the  pilgrim  came  barefooted  to  the  cloister 
door.  Pious  men  and  women  bore  the  corpse  of  St.  Bridget 
hither  in  their  hands  from  Rome,  and  all  the  church-bells  in 
all  the  lands  and  towns  they  passed  through,  tolled  when  they 
came. 

We  go  toward  the  cloister  —  the  remains  of  the  old  ruin. 
We  enter  St.  Bridget's  cell  —  it  still  stands  unchanged.  It  is 
low,  small,  and  narrow ;  four  diminutive  panes  form  the  whole 
window,  but  one  can  look  from  it  out  over  the  whole  garden 
and  far  away  over  the  Wetter.  We  see  the  same  beautiful 
landscape  that  the  fair  saint  saw  as  a  frame  around  her  God, 
whilst  she  read  her  morning  and  evening   prayers.     In   the 

1  Christ,  grant  that  such  an  angel  were  to  come,  and  take  both  me  and 
thee  ! 


I40  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

tile-stone  of  the  floor  there  is  engraved  a  rosary  :  before  it,  on 
her  bare  knees,  she  said  a  Paternoster  at  every  pearl  there 
pointed  out.  Here  is  no  chimney  —  no  hearth,  no  place  for 
it.  Cold  and  solitary  it  is,  and  was,  here  where  the  far- 
famed  woman  dwelt,  —  she  who  by  her  own  sagacity,  and 
by  her  contemporaries  was  raised  to  the  throne  of  female 
saints. 

From  this  poor  cell  we  enter  one  still  meaner,  one  still  more 
narrow  and  cold,  where  the  faint  light  of  day  struggles  in 
through  a  long  crevice  in  the  wall.  Glass  there  never  was 
here :  the  wind  blows  in.  Who  was  she  who  once  dwelt  in 
this  cell  ? 

In  our  times  they  have  arranged  light,  warm  chambers  close 
by :  a  whole  range  opens  into  the  broad  passage.  We  hear 
merry  songs  ;  laughter  we  hear,  and  weeping :  strange  figures 
nod  to  us  from  these  chambers.  Who  are  these  ?  The  rich 
cloister  of  St.  Bridget's,  to  which  kings  made  pilgrimages,  is 
now  Sweden's  mad-house.  And  here  the  numerous  travellers 
write  their  names  on  the  wall.  We  hasten  from  the  hideous 
scene  into  the  splendid  cloister  church,  —  the  blue  church, 
as  it  is  called,  from  the  blue  stones  of  which  the  walls  are 
built,  —  and  here,  where  the  large  stones  of  the  floor  cover 
great  men,  abbesses,  and  queens,  only  one  monument  is  no- 
ticeable, that  of  a  knightly  figure  carved  in  stone,  which 
stands  aloft  before  the  altar.  It  is  that  of  the  insane  Duke 
Magnus.  Is  it  not  as  if  he  stepped  forth  from  amongst  the 
dead,  and  announced  that  such  afflicted  creatures  were  to  be 
where  St.  Bridget  once  ruled  ? 

Pace  lightly  over  the  floor  !  Thy  foot  treads  on  the  graves 
of  the  pious :  the  flat,  modest  stone  here  in  the  corner  covers 
the  dust  of  the  noble  Queen  Philippa.  She,  that  mighty  Eng- 
land's daughter,  the  great-hearted,  the  immortal  woman,  who 
with  wisdom  and  courage  defended  her  consort's  throne,  — 
that  consort  who  rudely  and  barbarously  cast  her  off!  Wad- 
stena's  cloister  gave  her  shelter  —  the  grave  here  gave  her 
rest. 

We  seek  one  grave.  It  is  not  known  —  it  is  forgotten,  as 
she  was  in  her  life-time.  Who  was  she  ?  The  cloistered  sister 
Elizabeth,  daughter   of  the    Holstein    Count,  and   once  the 


WADSTENA.  I4I 

» 
bride  of  King  Hakon  of  Norway.  Sweet  creature !  she 
proudly  —  but  not  with  unbecoming  pride  —  advanced  in  her 
bridal  dress,  and  with  her  court  ladies,  up  to  her  royal  consort. 
Then  came  King  Valdemar,  who  by  force  and  fraud  stopped 
the  voyage,  and  induced  Hakon  to  marry  Margaret,  then 
eleven  years  of  age,  who  thereby  got  the  crown  of  Norway. 
Elizabeth  was  sent  to  Wadstena  cloister,  where  her  will  was 
not  asked.  Afterward  when  Margaret  —  who  justly  occupies 
a  great  place  in  the  history  of  Scandinavia,  but  only  compara- 
tively a  small  one  in  the  hearts  —  sat  on  the  throne,  powerful 
and  respected,  she  visited  the  then  flourishing  Wadstena,  where 
the  Abbess  of  the  cloister  was  St.  Bridget's  granddaughter,  her 
chilhood's  friend :  Margaret  kissed  every  monk  on  the  cheek. 
The  legend  is  well  known  about  him,  the  handsomest,  who 
thereupon  blushed.  She  kissed  every  nun  on  the  hand,  and 
also  Elizabeth,  her,  whom  she  would  only  see  here.  Whose 
heart  throbbed  loudest  at  that  kiss?  Poor  Elizabeth,  thy 
grave  is  forgotten,  but  not  the  wrong  thou  didst  suffer. 

We  now  enter  the  sacristy.  Here,  under  a  double  cofiin 
lid,  rests  an  age's  holiest  saint  in  the  North,  Vadstene  clois- 
ter's diadem  and  lustre  —  St.  Bridget. 

On  the  night  she  was  born,  says  the  legend,  there  appeared 
a  beaming  cloud  in  the  heavens,  and  on  it  stood  a  majestic 
virgin,  who  said  :  "  Of  Birger  is  born  a  daughter  whose  admir- 
able voice  shall  be  heard  over  the  whole  world."  This  deli- 
cate and  singular 'child  grew  up  in  the  castle  of  her  father, 
Knight  Brahe.  Visions  and  revelations  appeared  to  her,  and 
these  increased  when  she,  only  thirteen  years  of  age,  was  mar- 
ried to  the  rich  Ulf  Gudmundsen,  and  became  the  mother  of 
many  children.  "Thou  shalt  be  my  bride  and  my  agent," 
she  heard  Christ  say,  and  every  one  of  her  actions  was,  as 
she  averred,  according  to  his  announcement.  After  this  she 
went  to  Nidaros,  to  St.  Olufs  holy  shrine  :  she  then  went  to 
Germany,  France,  Spain,  and  Rome. 

Sometimes  honored  and  sometimes  mocked,  she  travelled, 
even  to  Cyprus  and  Palestine.  Conscious  of  approaching 
death,  she  again  reached  Rome,  where  her  last  revelation  was 
that  she  should  rest  in  Wadstena,  and  that  this  cloister  espe- 
cially should  be  sanctified  by  God's  love.     The  splendor  of  the 


142 


PICTURES   OF  SWEDEN. 


Northern  Lights  does  not  extend  so  far  around  the  earth  as 
the  glory  of  this  fair  saint,  which  now  is  but  a  legend.  We 
bend  with  silent,  serious  thoughts  before  the  mouldering  re- 
mains in  the  coffin  here  —  said  to  be  those  of  St.  Bridget  and 
her  daughter  St.  Catherine  ;  but  even  of  these  the  remem- 
brance will  be  extinguished.  There  is  a  tradition  amongst  the 
people,  that  in  the  time  of  the  Reformation  the  real  remains 
were  carried  off  to  a  cloister  in  Poland,  but  this  is  not  cer- 
tainly known.  Wadstena,  at  least,  is  not  the  repository  of  St. 
Bridget  and  her  daughter's  dust. 

Wadstena  was  once  great  and  glorious.  Great  was  the 
cloister's  power,  as  St.  Bridget  saw  it  in  the  prospect  of  death. 
Where  is  now  the  cloister's  might  ?  It  reposes  under  the 
tombstones  —  the  graves  alone  speak  of  it.  Here,  under  our 
feet,  only  a  few  steps  from  the  church  door,  is  a  stone  in  which 
are  carved  fourteen  rings  :  they  announce  that  fourteen  farms 
were  given  to  the  cloister,  in  order  that  he  who  moulders  here 
might  have  this  place,  fourteen  feet  within  the  church  door. 
It  was  Boa  Johnson  Grip,  a  great  sinner ;  but  the  cloister's 
power  was  greater  than  that  of  all  sinners  :  the  stone  on  his 
grave  records  it  with  no  ordinary  significance  of  language. 

Gustavus,  the  first  Vasa,  was  the  sun  —  the  ruling  power : 
the  brightness  of  the  cloister  star  must  needs  pale  before  him. 

There  yet  stands  a  stone  outline  of  Wadstena's  rich  palace 
which  he  erected,  with  towers  and  spires,  close  by  the  cloister. 
At  a  far  distance  on  the  Wetter,  it  looks  as  if  it  still  stood  in 
all  its  splendor ;  near,  in  moonlight  nights,  it  appears  the 
same  unchanged  edifice,  for  the  fathom-thick  walls  yet  remain  ; 
the  carvings  over  the  windows  and  gates  stand  forth  in  light 
and  shade,  and  the  moat  round  about,  which  is  only  separated 
from  the  Wetter  by  the  narrow  carriage  road,  takes  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  immense  building  as  a  mirroi'ed  image. 

We  now  stand  before  it  in  daylight.  Not  a  pane  of  glass 
is  to  be  found  in  it  j  planks  and  old  doors  are  nailed  fast  to 
the  window  frames  ;  the  balls  stand  only  on  tw^o  of  the 
towers,  broad,  heavy,  and  resembling  colossal  toad-stools.  The 
iron  spire  of  the  one  still  towers  aloft  in  the  air ;  the  other 
spire  is  bent :  like  the  hands  on  a  sun-dial  it  shows  the  time 
—  the  time  that  is  gone.     The  other  two  balls  are  half  fallen 


WADSTENA. 


14: 


down  ;  lambs  frisk  about  between  the  beams,  and  the  space 
below  is  used  as  a  cow-stall. 

The  arms  over  the  gateway  have  neither  spot  nor  blemish  : 
they  seem  as  if  carved  yesterday ;  the  walls  are  firm,  and  the 
stairs  look  like  new.  In  the  palace  yard,  far  above  the  gate- 
way, the  great  folding  door  was  opened,  whence  once  the  min- 
strels stepped  out  and  played  a  welcome  greeting  from  the 
balcony,  but  even  this  is  broken  down  :  we  go  through  the 
spacious  kitchen,  on  whose  white  walls  a  sketch  of  Wadstena 
Palace,  ships,  and  flowering  trees,  in  red  chalk,  still  attract 
the  eye. 

Here  where  they  cooked  and  roasted,  is  now  a  large  empty 
space  :  even  the  chimney  is  gone  :  and  from  the  ceiling  where 
thick,  heavy  beams  of  timber  have  been  placed  close  to  one 
another,  there  hangs  the  dust-covered  cobweb,  as  if  the  whole 
were  a  mass  of  dark-gray  dropping  stones. 

We  walk  from  hall  to  hall,  and  the  wooden  shutters  are 
opened  to  admit  daylight.  All  is  vast,  lofty,  spacious,  and 
adorned  with  antique  chimney-pieces,  and  from  every  window 
there  is  a  charming  prospect  over  the  clear,  deep  Wetter. 
In  one  of  the  chambers  in  the  ground-floor  sat  the  insane 
Duke  Magnus  (whose  stone  image  we  lately  saw  conspicuous 
in  the  church),  horrified  at  having  signed  his  own  brother's 
death-warrant ;  dreamingly  in  love  with  the  portrait  of  Scot- 
land's queen,  Mary  Stuart ;  paying  court  to  her,  and  expect- 
ing to  see  the  ship,  with  her,  glide  over  the  sea  toward  Wad- 
stena. And  she  came  —  he  thought  she  came  —  in  the  form 
of  a  mermaid,  raising  herself  aloft  on  the  water :  she  nodded 
and  called  to  him,  and  the  unfortunate  Duke  sprang  out  of  the 
window  down  to  her.  We  gazed  out  of  this  window,  and  be- 
low it  we  saw  the  deep  moat  in  which  he  sank. 

We  enter  the  yeoman's  hall,  and  the  council-hall,  where,  in 
the  recesses  of  the  windows,  on  each  side,  are  painted  yeo- 
men in  strange  dresses,  half  Dalecarlians  and  half  Roman 
warriors. 

In  this  once  rich  saloon,  Svanta  Steenson  Sture  knelt  to 
Sweden's  queen,  Catherine  Léjonhufvud :  she  was  Svanta 
Sture?s  love,  before  Gustavus  Vasa's  will  made  her  his  Queen. 
The  lovers  met  here  :  the  walls  are  silent  as  to  what  they  said, 


144  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

when  the  door  was  opened  and  the  King  entered,  and  saw  the 
kneeling  Sture,  and  asked  what  it  meant.  Margaret  answered 
craftily  and  hastily :  "  He  demands  my  sister  Martha's  hand 
in  marriage !  "  and  the  King  gave  Svanta  Sture  the  bride  the 
Queen  had  asked  for  him. 

We  are  now  in  the  royal  bridal  chamber,  whither  King 
Gustavus  led  his  third  consort,  —  Catherine  Steenbock,  also 
another's  bride,  —  the  bride  of  the  Knight  Gustavus.  It  is  a 
sad  story. 

Gustavus  of  the  three  roses  was  in  his  youth  honored  by 
the  King,  who  sent  him  on  a  mission  to  the  Emperor 
Charles  V.  He  returned  adorned  with  the  Emperor's  costly 
golden  chain  —  young,  handsome,  joyous,  and  richly  clad,  he 
returned  home,  and  knew  well  how  to  relate  the  magnificence 
and  charms  of  foreign  lands  :  young  and  old  listened  to  him 
with  admiration,  but  young  Catherine  most  of  all.  Through 
him  the  world  in  her  eyes  became  twice  as  large,  rich,  and 
beautiful ;  they  became  dear  to  each  other,  and  their  parents 
blessed  their  love.  The  love-pledge  was  to  be  drunk,  —  when 
there  came  a  message  from  the  King,  that  the  young  Knight 
must,  without  delay,  again  bear  a  letter  and  greeting  to  the 
Emperor  Charles.  The  betrothed  pair  separated  with  heavy 
hearts,  but  with  a  promise  of  mutual  inviolable  troth.  The 
King  then  invited  Catherine's  parents  to  come  to  Wadstena 
Palace.  Catherine  was  obliged  to  accompany  them  j  here 
King  Gustavus  saw  her  for  the  first  time,  and  the  old  man  fell 
in  love  with  her. 

Christmas  was  kept  with  great  hilarity  ;  there  were  song  and 
harp  in  these  halls,  and  the  King  himself  played  the  lute. 
When  the  time  came  for  departure,  the  King  said  to  Cath- 
erine's mother  that  he  would  marrj'  the  young  girl. 

"  But  she  is  the  bride  of  the  Knight  Gustavus !  "  stammered 
the  mother. 

"Young  hearts  soon  forget  their  sorrows,"  thought  the 
King.  The  mother  thought  so  likewise,  and  as  there  chanced 
to  come  a  letter  the  same  day  and  hour  from  the  young  Knight 
Gustavus,  Frau  Steenbock  committed  it  to  the  flames.  All  the 
letters  that  came  afterward  and  all  the  letters  that  Catherine 
wrote  were  burnt  by  her  mother,  and  doubts  and  evil  reports 


WADSTENA.  1 45 

were  whispered  to  Catherine,  that  she  was  forgotten  aoroad 
by  her  young  lover.  But  Catherine  was  secure  and  firm  in 
her  belief  of  him.  In  the  spring  her  parents  made  known  to 
her  the  King's  proposal,  and  praised  her  good  fortune.  She 
answered  seriously  and  determinedly,  "  No  !  "  and  when  they 
repeated  to  her  that  it  should  and  must  happen,  she  repeat- 
edly screamed  in  the  greatest  anguish,  "  No,  no  !  "  and  sank 
exhausted  at  her  father  and  mother's  feet,  and  humbly  prayed 
them  not  to  force  her. 

And  the  mother  wrote  to  the  King  that  all  was  going  on 
well,  but  that  her  child  was  bashful.  The  King  now  an- 
nounced his  visit  to  Torpe,  where  her  parents,  the  Steenbocks, 
dwelt.  The  King  was  received  with  rejoicing  and  feasting, 
but  Catherine  had  disappeared,  and  the  King  himself  was  the 
successful  one  who  found  her.  She  sat  dissolved  in  tears 
under  the  wild  rose-tree,  where  she  had  bidden  farewell  to 
her  heart's  beloved. 

There  were  merry  song  and  joyous  life  in  the  old  mansion  ; 
Catherine  alone  was  sorrowful  and  silent.  Her  mother  had 
brought  her  all  her  jewels  and  ornaments,  but  she  wore  none 
of  them :  she  had  put  on  her  simplest  dress,  but  in  this  she 
only  fascinated  the  old  King  the  more,  and  he  would  have  it 
that  their  betrothal  should  take  place  before  he  departed. 
Frau  Steenbock  wrested  the  Knight  Gustavus's  ring  from 
Catherine's  finger,  and  whispered  in  her  ear  :  "  It  will  cost  the 
friend  of  thy  youth  his  life  and  fortune  ;  the  King  can  do  every- 
thing I  "  And  the  parents  led  her  to  King  Gustavus,  showed 
him  that  the  ring  was  from  the  maiden's  hand  ;  and  the  King 
placed  his  own  golden  ring  on  her  finger  in  the  other's  stead. 
In  the  month  of  August  the  flag  waved  from  the  mast  of  the 
royal  yacht  which  bore  the  young  Queen  over  the  Wetter. 
Princes  and  knights  in  costly  robes  stood  by  the  shore, 
music  played,  and  the  people  shouted.  Catherine  made  her 
entry  into  Wadstena  Palace.  The  nuptials  were  celebrated 
the  following  day,  and  the  walls  were  hung  with  silk  and  velvet, 
with  cloth  of  gold  and  silver  It  was  a  festival  and  rejoicing. 
Poor  Catherine ! 

In  November,  the  Knight  Gustavus  of  the  three  roses  re- 
turned home.     His  prudent,  noble  mother,  Christina  Gyllen- 


1^.6  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

Stjerne,  met  him  at  the  frontiers  of  the  kingdom,  prepared  him, 
consoled  him,  and  soothed  his  mind  :  she  accompanied  him 
by  slow  stages  to  Wadstena,  where  they  were  both  invited  by 
the  King  to  remain  during  the  Christmas  festival.  They  ac- 
cepted the  invitation,  but  the  Knight  Gustavus  was  not  to  be 
moved  to  come  to  the  King's  table  or  any  other  place  where 
the  Queen  was  to  be  found.  The  Christmas  approached.  One 
Sunday  evening,  Gustavus  was  disconsolate  ;  the  Knight  w-as 
long  sleepless,  and  at  daybreak  he  went  into  the  church,  to 
the  tomb  of  his  ancestress,  St.  Bridget.  There  he  saw,  at  a 
few  paces  from  him,  a  female  kneeling  before  Philippa's  tomb. 
It  was  the  Queen  he  saw  ;  their  eyes  met,  and  Gustavus  has- 
tened away.  She  then  mentioned  his  name,  begged  him  to 
stay,  and  commanded  him  to  do  so. 

"  I  command  it,  Gustavus  !  "  said  she :  "  the  Queen  com- 
mands it." 

And  she  spoke  to  him  ;  they  conversed  together,  and  it  be- 
came clear  to  them  both  what  had  been  done  against  them  and 
with  them  ;  and  she  showed  him  a  withered  rose  which  she 
kept  in  her  bosom,  and  she  bent  toward  him  and  gave  him 
a  kiss,  the  last  —  their  eternal  leave-taking  —  and  then  they 
separated.  He  died  shortly  afterward,  but  Catherine  was 
stronger,  and  yet  not  strong  enough  for  her  heart's  deep  sor- 
row. Here,  in  the  bed-chamber,  in  uneasy  dreams,  says  the 
storjf,  she  betrayed  in  sleep  the  constant  thought  of  her  heart, 
her  youth's  love,  to  the  King,  saying  :  "  Gustavus  I  love  dearly  ; 
but  the  rose  —  I  shall  never  forget." 

From  a  secret  door  we  walk  out  on  the  open  rampart, 
where  the  sheep  now  graze  ;  the  cattle  are  driven  into  one  of 
the  ruined  towers.  We  see  the  palace  yard,  and  look  from  it 
up  to  a  window.  Come,  thou  birch-wood's  thrush,  and  warble 
thy  la3^s  ;  sing,  whilst  we  recall  the  bitterness  of  love  in  the 
rude,  the  chivalrous  ages. 

Under  that  window  there  stood,  one  cold  winter's  night, 
wrapped  in  his  white  cloak,  the  young  Count  John,  of  East 
Friesland.  His  brother  had  married  Gustavus  Vasa's  eldest 
daughter,  and  departed  with  her  to  his  home  :  wherever  they 
came  on  their  journey,  there  was  mirth  and  feasting,  but  the 
greatest  splendor  was  at  Wadstena  Palace.    Cecilia,  the  King's 


WADSTENA. 


147 


younger  daughter,  had  accompanied  her  sister  hither,  and  was 
here,  as  everywhere,  the  first,  the  most  beautiful  in  the  chase 
as  well  as  at  the  tournament.  The  winter  began  directly  on 
their  arrival  at  Wadstena  ;  the  cold  was  severe,  and  the  Wet- 
ter frozen  over.  One  day  Cecilia  rode  out  on  the  ice  and  it 
broke  ;  her  brother  Prince  Erik,  came  galloping  to  her  aid. 
John,  of  East  Friesland,  was  already  there,  and  begged  Erik 
to  dismount,  as  he  would,  being  on  horseback,  break  the  ice 
still  more.  Erik  would  not  listen  to  him,  and  as  John  saw 
that  there  was  no  time  for  dispute,  he  dragged  Erik  from  the 
horse,  sprang  into  the  water  himself,  and  saved  Cecilia.  Prince 
Erik  was  furious  with  wrath,  and  no  one  could  appease  him. 
Cecilia  lay  long  in  a  fever,  and  during  its  continuance,  her  love 
for  him  who  had  saved  her  life  increased.  She  recovered,  and 
they  understood  each  other,  but  the  day  of  separation  ap- 
proached. It  was  on  the  night  previous  that  John,  in  his 
white  cloak,  ascended  from  stone  to  stone,  holding  by  his  silk 
ladder,  until  he  at  length  entered  the  window  ;  here  they  would 
converse  for  hours  in  all  modesty  and  honor,  speak  about  his 
return  and  their  nuptials  the  following  year  ;  and  whilst  they 
sat  there  the  door  was  hewn  down  with  axes.  Prince  Erik  en- 
tered, and  raised  the  murderous  weapon  to  slay  the  young 
Lord  of  East  Friesland,  when  Cecilia  threw  herself  between 
them.  But  Erik  commanded  his  menials  to  seize  the  lover, 
whom  they  put  in  irons  and  cast  into  a  low,  dark  hole,  that 
cold  frosty  night ;  and  the  next  day,  without  even  giving  him  a 
morsel  of  bread  or  a  drop  of  water,  he  was  thrown  on  a  peas- 
ant's sledge,  and  dragged  before  the  King  to  receive  judg- 
ment. Erik  himself  cast  his  sister's  fair  name  and  fame  into 
slander's  babbling  pool,  and  high  dames  and  citizen's  wives 
washed  unspotted  innocence  in  calumny's  impure  waters. 

It  is  only  when  the  large  wooden  shutters  of  the  saloons  are 
opened  that  the  sunbeams  stray  in  here;  the  dust  accumu- 
lates in  their  twisted  pillars,  and  is  only  just  disturbed  by  the 
draught  of  air.  In  here  is  a  warehouse  for  corn.  Great  fat 
rats  make  their  nests  in  these  halls.  The  spider  spins  mourn- 
ing banners  under  the  beams.     This  is  Wadstena  Palace  ! 

We  are  filled  with  sad  thoughts.  We  turn  our  eyes  from 
this  place  toward  the  lowly  house  with  the  grass   turf  roof, 


148  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEI^. 

where  the  little  lamb  crops  the  grass  under  the  cherry-tree, 
which  strews  its  fragrant  leaves  over  it.  Our  thoughts  de- 
scend from  the  rich  cloister,  from  the  proud  palace,  to  the 
grassy  turf,  and  the  sun  fades  away  over  the  turf,  and  the  old 
dame  goes  to  sleep  under  the  sod,  below  which  lie  the  mighty 
memorials  of  Wadstena. 


IX. 

THE   PUPPET   SHOWMAN. 

THERE  was  an  elderly  man  on  the  steamboat,  with  such 
a  contented  face  that,  if  it  did  not  lie,  he  must  be  the 
happiest  man  on  earth.  That  he  indeed  said  he  was  :  I  heard 
it  from  his  own  mouth.  He  was  a  Dane,  consequently  my  coun- 
tryman, and  was  a  travelling  theatrical  manager.  He  had  the 
whole  corps  dramatique  with  him  ;  they  lay  in  a  large  chest  — 
he  was  a  puppet  showman.  His  innate  good-humor,  said  he, 
had  been  tried  by  a  polytechnic  candidate,^  and  from  this 
experiment  on  his  patience  he  had  become  completely  happy. 
I  did  not  understand  him  at  the  moment,  but  he  soon  laid  the 
whole  case  clearly  before  me  ;  and  here  it  is. 

"  It  was  in  Slagelse,"  said  he,  "  that  I  gave  a  representation 
at  the  parsonage,  and  had  a  brilliant  house  and  a  brilliant  com- 
pany of  spectators,  all  young  persons,  unconfirmed,  except  a 
few  old  ladies.  Then  there  came  a  person  dressed  in  black, 
having  the  appearance  of  a  student :  he  sat  down  amongst  the 
others,  laughed  quite  at  the  proper  time,  and  applauded  quite 
correctly ;  that  was  an  unusual  spectator  ! 

"  I  was  bent  on  ascertaining  who  he  was,  and  then  I  heard 
that  he  was  a  candidate  from  the  polytechnic  school,  who  had 
been  sent  out  to  instruct  people  in  the  provinces.  At  eight 
o'clock  my  representation  was  over  ;  the  children  were  to  go 
early  to  bed,  and  one  must  think  of  the  convenience  of  the 
public. 

"  At  nine  o'clock  the  candidate  began  his  lectures  and  ex- 
periments, and  now  /was  one  oi his  auditory. 

"  It  was  remarkable  to  hear  and  look  at !  The  chief  part 
of  it  went  over  my  head  and  into  the  parson's,  as  one  says. 
Can  it  be  possible,  thought  I,  that  we  human  beings  can  find 
^  One  who  has  passed  his  examination  at  a  polytechnic  school. 


1 50  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

out  such  things  ?  in  that  case,  we  must  also  be  able  to  hold 
out  longer,  before  we  are  put  into  the  earth.  It  was  merely 
small  miracles  that  he  performed,  and  yet  all  as  easy  as  an  old 
stocking  —  quite  from  nature.  In  the  time  of  Moses  and  the 
prophets,  such  a  polytechnic  candidate  would  have  been  one 
of  the  wise  men  of  the  land,  and  in  the  Middle  Ages  he  would 
have  been  burnt.  I  could  not  sleep  the  whole  night,  and  as  I 
gave  a  representation  the  next  evening,  and  the  candidate  was 
there  again,  I  got  into  a  real  merry  humor. 

"  I  have  heard  of  an  actor  who,  when  playing  the  lovers' 
parts,  only  thought  of  one  of  the  spectators  \  he  played  for  her 
alone,  and  forgot  all  the  rest  of  the  house  ;  the  polytechnic 
candidate  was  my  her.,  my  only  spectator,  for  whom  I  played. 
And  when  the  performance  was  over,  all  the  puppets  were 
called  forward,  and  I  was  invited  by  the  polytechnic  candidate 
to  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  him  ;  and  he  spoke  about  my 
comedy,  and  I  of  his  science  ;  and  I  believe  we  each  derived 
equal  pleasure  from  the  other.  But  yet  I  had  the  advantage, 
for  there  was  so  much  in  his  performance  that  he  could  not 
account  for :  as,  for  instance,  that  a  piece  of  iron  which  falls 
through  a  spiral  line,  becomes  magnetic,  —  well,  how  is  that  ? 
The  spirit  comes  over  it,  but  whence  does  it  come  from  ?  it  is 
just  as  with  the  human  beings  of  this  world,  I  think  ;  our  Lord 
lets  them  fall  through  the  spiral  line  of  time,  and  the  spirit 
comes  over  them  —  and  there  stands  a  Napoleon,  a  Luther,  or 
a  similar  person. 

"  '  All  nature  is  a  series  of  miracles,'  said  the  candidate, 
'  but  we  are  so  accustomed  to  them  that  we  call  them  things 
of  every-day  life.'  And  he  spoke  and  he  explained,  so  that  it 
seemed  at  last  as  if  he  lifted  my  skull,  and  I  honestly  con- 
fessed, that  if  I  were  not  an  old  fellow,  I  would  go  directly  to 
the  polytechnic  school,  and  learn  to  examine  the  world  in  the 
summer,  although  I  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  men. 

"  '  One  of  the  happiest ! '  said  he,  and  it  was  just  as  if  he 
tasted  it.  '  Are  you  happy  ? '  — '  Yes  ! '  said  I,  '  I  am  happy, 
and  I  am  welcome  in  all  the  towns  I  come  to  with  my  com- 
pany !  There  is  certainly  one  wish,  that  comes  now  and  then 
like  a  nightmare,  which  rides  on  my  good-humor,  and  that  is 
to  be  a  theatrical  manager  for  a  living  company  —  a  company 
of  real  men  and  women.' 


THE  PUPPET  SHOWMAN.  I5I 

"  '  You  wish  to  have  your  puppets  animated  ;  you  would 
have  them  become  real  actors  and  actresses,'  said  he,  '  and 
yourself  be  the  manager  ?  you  then  think  that  you  would  be 
perfectly  happy  ? ' 

"  Now,  he  did  not  think  so,  but  I  thought  so ;  and  we  talked 
for  and  against ;  and  we  were  just  as  near  in  our  opinions  as 
before.  But  we  clinked  our  glasses  together,  and  the  wine  was 
very  good  ;  but  there  was  witchcraft  in  it,  or  else  the  short  and 
the  long  of  the  story  would  be  —  that  I  was  intoxicated. 

"  That  I  was  not  j  my  eyes  were  quite  clear  ;  it  was  as  if 
there  was  sunshine  in  the  room,  and  it  shone  out  of  the  face  of 
the  polytechnic  candidate,  so  that  I  began  to  think  of  the  old 
gods  in  their  youth,  and  when  they  went  about  in  the  world. 
And  I  told  him  so,  and  then  he  smiled,  and  I  durst  have  sworn 
that  he  was  a  disguised  god,  or  one  of  the  family !  And  he 
was  so  —  my  first  wish  was  to  be  fulfilled  :  the  puppets  be- 
came living  beings  and  I  the  manager  of  men  and  women. 
We  drank  that  it  should  be  so  !  he  put  all  my  puppets  in  the 
wooden  chest,  fastened  it  on  my  back,  and  then  let  me  fall 
through  a  spiral  line.  I  can  still  hear  how  I  came  down,  slap  ! 
I  lay  on  the  floor,  that  is  quite  sure  and  certain,  and  the  whole 
company  sprang  out  of  the  chest.  The  spirit  had  come  over 
us  all  together  ;  all  the  puppets  had  become  excellent  artists 
—  they  said  so  themselves  —  and  I  was  the  manager.  Every- 
thing was  in  order  for  the  first  representation  ;  the  whole  com- 
pany must  speak  with  me,  and  the  public  also.  The  female 
dancer  said  that  if  she  did  not  stand  on  one  leg  the  house 
would  be  in  an  uproar  :  she  was  master  of  the  whole,  and 
would  be  treated  as  such. 

"  She  who  played  the  queen  would  also  be  treated  as  a 
queen  when  off  the  stage,  or  else  she  should  get  out  of  practice, 
and  he  who  was  employed  to  come  in  with  a  letter  made  him- 
self as  important  as  the  first  lover.  '  For,'  said  he,  '  the  small 
are  of  just  as  much  importance  as  the  great,  in  an  artistic 
whole.'  Then  the  hero  demanded  that  the  whole  of  his  part 
should  only  be  retorts  on  making  his  exit,  for  these  the  public 
applauded  ;  the  prima  donna  would  only  play  in  a  red  light,  for 
that  suited  her  best — she  would  not  be  blue:  they  were  all 
like  flies  in  a  bottle,  and  I  was  also  in  the  bottle  —  for  I  was 


152 


PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 


the  manager.  I  lost  my  breath,  my  head  was  quite  dizzy  I 
was  as  miserable  as  a  man  can  be  ;  it  was  a  new  race  of  beings 
I  had  come  amongst ;  I  wished  that  I  had  them  altogether  again 
in  the  chest,  that  I  had  never  been  a  manager  :  I  told  them 
that  they  were  in  fact  only  puppets,  and  so  they  beat  me 
to  death.     That  was  my  feeling. 

"  I  lay  on  the  bed  in  my  chamber  ;  but  how  I  had  come 
there  from  the  polytechnic  candidate,  he  must  know  best  — 
for  I  do  not.  The  moon  shone  in  on  the  floor  where  the  pup- 
pet chest  lay  upset,  and  all  the  puppets  spread  about  —  great 
and  small,  the  whole  lot.  But  I  was  not  floored ;  I  sprang 
out  of  bed,  and  threw  them  all  into  the  chest,  some  on  their 
heads,  and  some  on  their  legs  ;  I  smacked  the  lid  down  and 
sat  myself  upon  it :  it  was  worth  painting  ;  can't  you  conceive 
it  ?  I  can  !  *  Now  you  shall  be  there  ! '  said  I,  '  and  I  will 
never  more  wish  that  you  may  become  flesh  and  blood  I'  I 
was  so  glad  ;  I  was  the  happiest  man  alive  —  the  polytechnic 
candidate  had  tried  me  !  I  sat  in  perfect  bliss,  and  fell  asleep 
on  the  chest ;  and  in  the  morning  —  it  was  properly  speaking, 
at  noon,  for  I  slept  so  very  long  that  morning —  I  sat  there 
still,  happy  and  edified  —  I  saw  that  my  previous  and  only 
wish  had  been  stupid.  I  inquired  for  the  polytechnic  candi- 
date, but  he  was  gone,  like  the  Greek  and  Roman  gods. 

"  And  from  that  time  I  have  been  the  happiest  man  alive. 
I  am  a  fortunate  manager  ;  my  company  does  not  argue  with 
me,  neither  does  the  public  ;  they  are  amused  to  their  hearts' 
content,  and  I  can  myself  put  all  my  pieces  nicely  together. 
I  take  the  best  parts  out  of  all  sorts  of  comedies  that  I  choose, 
and  no  one  troubles  himself  about  it.  Pieces  that  are  nov/ 
despised  at  the  large  theatres,  but  which  thirty  years  ago  the 
public  ran  to  see,  and  cried  over  —  those  pieces  I  now-  make 
use  of.  I  now  present  them  before  the  young  folks  ;  and  the 
young  folks  —  they  cry  just  as  their  fathers  and  mothers  used 
to  do.  I  give  '  Johanna  Montfakon  '  and  '  Dyveke,'  but  ab- 
breviated ;  for  the  little  folks  do  not  like  long,  twaddling  love 
stories.  They  must  have  it  unfortunate  —  but  it  must  be  brief. 
Now  that  I  have  travelled  through  Denmark,  both  to  the  right 
and  left,  I  know  everybody  and  am  known  again.    Now  I  have 


THE  PUPPET  SHOWMAN. 


153 


come  to  Sweden,  and  if  I  am  successful  and  gain  much  money, 
I  will  be  a  Scandinavian,  if  the  humor  hold  ;  and  this  I  tell 
you,  as  you  are  my  countryman." 

And  I,  as  his  countryman,  naturally  tell  it  again  —  only  foi 
the  sake  of  telling  it. 


X. 

THE   SKJÅRGAARDS. 

THE  canal  voyage  through  Sweden  goes  at  flrst  con- 
stantly upward,  through  elvs  and  lakes,  forests  and 
rocky  land.  From  the  heights  we  look  down  on  vast  extents 
of  forest  land  and  large  lakes,  and  by  degrees  the  vessel 
sinks  again  down  through  mountain  torrents.  At  Mem  we 
are  again  down  by  the  salt  fjord:  a  solitary  tower  raises  its 
head  between  the  remains  of  low,  thick  walls  —  it  is  the  ruins 
of  Stegeborg.  The  coast  is  covered  to  a  great  extent  with 
dark,  melancholy  forests,  which  inclose  small  grass-grown 
valleys.  The  screaming  sea-gulls  fly  around  our  vessel ;  we 
are  by  the  Baltic  ;  we  feel  the  fresh  sea-breeze ;  it  blows  as 
in  the  times  of  the  ancient  heroes,  when  the  sea-kings,  sons 
of  high-born  fathers,  displayed  their  deeds  here.  The  same 
sea's  surface  then  appeared  to  them  as  now  to  us,  with  its 
numberless  isles,  which  lie  strewed  about  here  in  the  water  by 
thousands  along  the  whole  coast.  The  depth  of  water  be- 
tween the  rocky  isles  and  the  solid  land  is  that  we  call  "  The 
Skjargaards  :  "  their  waters  flow  into  each  other  with  varying 
splendor.  We  see  it  in  the  sunshine,  and  it  is  like  a  large 
English  landscape  garden  ;  but  the  greensward  plain  is  here 
the  deep  sea,  the  flower-beds  in  it  are  rocks  and  reefs,  rich 
in  firs  and  pines,  oaks  and  bushes.  Mark  how,  when  the 
wind  blows  from  the  east,  and  the  sea  breaks  over  sunken 
rocks  and  is  dashed  back  again  in  spray  from  the  cliffs,  your 
limbs  feel  —  even  through  the  ship  on  which  you  stand  — 
the  power  of  the  sea  :  you  are  lifted  as  if  by  supernatural 
hands. 

We  rush  on  against  wind  and  sea,  as  if  it  were  the  sea-god's 
snorting  horse  that  bore  us,  from  Skjargaard  to  Skjargaard. 
The  signal-gun  is  fired,  and  the  pilot  comes  from  that  solitary 


THE  SKJÅRGAARDS.  1 55 

wooden  house.  Sometimes  we  look  upon  the  open  sea,  some- 
times we  glide  again  in  between  dark,  stony  islands  ;  they  lie 
like  gigantic  monsters  in  the  water :  one  has  the  form  of  the 
tortoise's  arched  shell,  another  has  the  elephant's  back  and 
rough  gray  color.  Mouldering,  light-gray  rocks  indicate  that 
the  waves  for  centuries  have  lashed  over  them. 

We  now  approach  larger  rocky  islands,  and  the  huge,  gray, 
broken  rocks  of  the  main-land,  where  dwarfish  pine  woods 
grow  in  a  continual  combat  with  the  blast ;  the  Skjargaards 
sometimes  become  only  a  narrow  canal,  sometimes  an  extensive 
lake  strewed  with  small  islets,  all  of  stone,  and  often  only  a 
mere  block  of  stone,  to  which  a  single  little  fir-tree  clings  fast : 
screaming  sea-gulls  flutter  around  the  landmarks  that  are 
set  up  ;  and  now  we  see  a  single  farm-house,  whose  red- 
painted  sides  shine  forth  from  the  dark  background.  A  group 
of  cows  lie  basking  in  the  sun  on  the  stony  surface,  near  a  little 
smiling  pasture,  which  appears  to  have  been  cultivated  here 
or  cut  out  of  a  meadow  in  Scania.  How  solitary  must  it  not 
be  to  live  on  that  little  island  !  Ask  the  boy  who  sits  there 
by  the  cattle,  he  will  be  able  to  tell  us.  "  It  is  lively  and 
merry  here,"  says  he.  "  The  day  is  so  long  and  light,  the 
seal  sits  out  there  on  the  stone  and  barks  in  the  early  morn- 
ing hour,  and  all  the  steamers  from  the  canal  must  pass  here. 
I  know  them  all ;  and  when  the  sun  goes  down  in  the  even- 
ing, it  is  like  a  story  to  look  into  the  clouds  over  the  land ; 
there  stand  mountains  with  palaces,  in  silver  and  in  gold,  in 
red  and  in  blue  ;  sailing  dragons  with  golden  crowns,  or  an 
old  giant  with  a  beard  down  to  his  waist  —  altogether  of  clouds, 
and  they  are  always  changing. 

"The  storms  come  on  in  the  autumn,  and  then  there  is  often 
much  anxiety  when  father  is  out  to  help  ships  in  distress  : 
but  one  becomes,  as  it  were,  a  new  being. 

"  In  winter  the  ice  is  locked  fast  and  firm,  and  we  drive 
from  island  to  island  and  to  the  main-land ;  and  if  the  bear 
or  the  wolf  pays  us  a  visit  we  take  his  skin  for  a  winter  cov- 
ering :  it  is  warm  in  the  room  there,  and  they  read  and  tell 
stories  about  old  times  !  " 

Yes,  old  Time,  how  thou  dost  unfold  thyself  with  re- 
membrances of  these  very  Skjargaards  —  old  Time  which  be- 


I  56  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

longed  to  tne  orave.  These  waters,  these  rocky  isles  and 
strands,  saw  heroes  more  greatly  active  than  actively  good  : 
they  sviTing  the  axe  to  give  the  mortal  blow,  or,  as  they  called 
it,  "the  whining  Jetteqvinde."^ 

Here  came  the  Vikings  with  their  ships  :  on  the  headland 
yonder  they  levied  provisions  ;  the  grazing  cattle  were  slaugh- 
tered and  borne  away.  Ye  mouldering  cliffs,  had  ye  but  a 
tongue,  ye  might  tell  us  about  the  duels  with  the  two-handed 
sword  —  about  the  deeds  of  the  giants.  Ye  saw  the  hero 
hew  with  the  sword,  and  cast  the  javelin  :  his  left  hand  was 
as  cunning  as  his  right.  The  sword  moved  so  quickly  in  the 
air  that  there  seemed  to  be  three.  Ye  saw  him,  when  he  in 
all  his  martial  array  sprang  forward  and  backward,  higher 
than  he  himself  was  tall,  and  if  he  sprang  into  the  sea  he 
swam  like  a  whale.  Ye  saw  the  two  combatants  :  the  one 
darted  his  javelin,  the  other  caught  it  in  the  air,  and  cast  it 
back  again,  so  that  it  pierced  through  shield  and  man  down 
into  the  earth.  Ye  saw  warriors  wåth  sharp  swords  and  angry 
hearts ;  the  sword  was  struck  downward  so  as  to  cut  the 
knee,  but  the  combatant  sprang  into  the  air,  and  the  sword 
whizzed  under  his  feet.  Mighty  Sagas  from  the  olden  times  ! 
Mouldering  rocks,  could  ye  but  tell  us  of  these  things  ! 

Ye,  deep  waters,  bore  the  Vikings'  ships,  and  when  the 
strong  in  battle  lifted  the  iron  anchor  and  cast  it  against  the 
enemy's  vessel,  so  that  the  planks  were  rent  asunder,  ye 
poured  your  dark  heavy  seas  into  the  hold,  so  that  the  bark 
sank.  The  wild  Berserk.,  who  with  naked  breast  stood  against 
his  enemy's  blows,  mad  as  a  dog,  howling  like  a  bear,  tearing 
his  shield  asunder,  rushing  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea  here,  and 
fetching  up  stones,  which  ordinary  men  could  not  raise  — 
history  peoples  these  waters,  these  cliffs,  for  us  !  A  future  poet 
will  conjure  them  to  this  Scandinavian  Archipelago,  chisel 
the  true  forms  out  of  the  old  Sagas,  the  bold,  the  rude,  the 
greatness  and  imperfections  of  the  time,  in  their  habits  as 
they  lived. 

They  rise  again  for  us  on  yonder  island,  where  the  wind  is 
whistling  through  the  young  fir  wood.  The  house  is  of  beams 
roofed  with  bark :  the  smoke  from  the  fire  on  the  broad  stone 

1  Giantess. 


THE  SKJARGAÅRDS.  I57 

in  the  hall,  whirls  through  the  air-hole,  near  which  stands  the 
cask  of  mead ;  the  cushions  lie  on  the  bench  before  the  closed 
bedsteads ;  deer-skins  hang  over  the  log  walls,  ornamented 
with  shields,  helmets,  and  armor.  Effigies  of  gods,  carved, 
on  wooden  poles,  stand  before  the  high  seat  where  the  noble 
Viking  sits,  a  high-born  father's  youngest  son,  great  in  fame, 
but  still  greater  in  deeds  ;  the  skjalds  (bards)  and  foster- 
brothers  sit  nearest  to  him.  They  defended  the  coasts  of 
their  countrymen,  and  the  pious  women ;  they  fetched  wheat 
and  honey  from  England  ;  they  went  to  the  White  Sea  for 
sables  and  furs  —  their  adventures  are  related  in  song.  We 
see  the  old  man  ride  in  rich  clothing,  with  gloves  sewn  with 
golden  thread,  and  with  a  hat  brought  from  Garderike  ;  we 
see  the  youth  with  a  golden  fillet  around  his  brow  :  we  see 
him  at  the  Thing ;  we  see  him  in  battle  and  in  play,  where 
the  best  is  he  that  can  cut  off  the  other's  eyebrows  without 
scratching  the  skin,  or  causing  a  wink  with  the  eyes,  on  pain 
of  losing  his  rank.  The  woman  sits  in  the  log-house  at  her 
loom,  and  in  the  late  moonlight  nights  the  spirits  of  the  fallen 
come  and  sit  down  around  the  fire,  where  they  shake  the  wet 
dripping  clothes ;  but  the  serf  sleeps  in  the  ashes,  and  on  the 
kitchen  bench,  and  dreams  that  he  dips  his  bread  in  the  fat 
soup,  and  licks  his  fingers. 

Thou  future  poet,  thou  wilt  call  forth  the  vanished  forms 
from  the  Sagas,  thou  wilt  people  these  islands,  and  let  us 
glide  past  these  reminiscences  of  the  olden  time  with  the  mind 
full  of  them  •  clearly  and  truly  wilt  thou  let  us  glide,  as  we 
now  with  the  power  of  steam  fly  past  that  firmly  standing 
scenery,  the  swelling  sea,  rocks  and  reefs,  the  main-land,  and 
wood-grown  islands. 

We  are  already  past  Braavigen,  where  numberless  ships 
from  the  northern  kingdoms  lay,  when  Upsala's  king,  Sigurd 
Ring,  came,  challenged  by  Harald  Hildetand,  who,  old  and 
gray,  feared  to  die  on  a  sick-bed,  and  would  fall  in  battle ;  and 
the  main-land  thundered  like  the  plains  of  Marathon  beneath 
the  tramp  of  -horses'  hoofs  during  the  battle  :  ^  bards  and  fe- 
male warriors  surrounded  the  Danish  King.  The  blind  old 
man  raised  himself  high  in  his  chariot,  gave  his  horse  free  rein, 
1  The  battle  of  Braavalla. 


I  58  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

and  hewed  his  way.  Odin  himself  had  due  reverence  paid  to 
Hildetand's  bones  ;  and  the  pile  was  kindled,  and  the  King 
laid  on  it,  and  Sigurd  conjured  all  to  cast  gold  and  weapons, 
the  most  valuable  they  possessed,  into  the  fire  ;  and  the  bards 
sang  to  it,  and  the  female  warriors  struck  the  spears  on  the 
bright  shields.  Upsala's  lord,  Sigurd  Ring,  became  King  of 
Sweden  and  Denmark :  so  says  the  Saga,  which  sounded  over 
the  land  and  water  from  these  coasts. 

The  memorials  of  olden  times  pass  swiftly  through  our 
thoughts ;  we  fly  past  the  scene  of  manly  exercises  and  great 
deeds —  the  ship  cleaves  the  mighty  waters  with  its  iron  pad- 
dles, from  Skjargaard  to  Skjargaard. 


XI. 


STOCKHOLM. 


WE  cast  runes  ■^  here  on  the  paper,  and  from  the  white 
ground  the  picture  of  Birger  Jarl's  six  hundred  years' 
old  city  rises  before  thee. 

The  runes  roll,  you  see !  Wood-grown  rocky  isles  appear  in 
the  light,  gray  morning  mist ;  numberless  flocks  of  wild  birds 
build  their  nests  in  safety  here,  where  the  fresh  waters  of  the 
Malar  rush  into  the  salt  sea.  The  Viking's  ship  comes  ; 
King  Agna  stands  by  the  prow  —  he  brings  as  booty  the  King 
of  Finland's  daughter.  The  oak-tree  spreads  its  branches 
over  their  bridal  chamber  :  at  daybreak  the  oak-tree  bears 
King  Agna,  hanged  in  his  long  golden  chain :  that  is  the 
bride's  work,  and  the  ship  sails  away  again  with  her  and  the 
rescued  Fins. 

The  clouds  drive  past  —  the  years  too. 

Hunters  and  fishermen  erect  themselves  huts ;  it  is  again 
deserted  here,  where  the  sea-birds  alone  have  their  homes. 
What  is  it  that  so  frightens  these  numberless  flocks  ?  the  wild 
duck  and  sea-gull  fly  screaming  about,  there  is  a  hammering 
and  driving  of  piles.  Oluf  Skotkonge  has  large  beams  bored 
down  into  the  ground,  and  strong  iron  chains  fastened  across 
the  stream:  "Thou  art  caught,  Oluf  Haraldson,^ — caught 
with  the  ships  and  crews  with  which  thou  didst  devastate  the 
royal  city  Sigtuna :  thou  canst  not  escape  from  the  closed 
Malar  Lake!" 

It  is  but  the  work  of  one  night ;  the  same  night  when  Oluf 
Hakonson,  with    iron    and  with  fire,   burst   his  onward  way 

1  "  To  cast  runes  "  was,  in  the  olden  time,  to  exercise  witchcraft. 
When  the  apple,  with  ciphers  cut  in  it,  rolled  into  the  maiden's  lap,  her 
heart  and  mind  were  infatuated. 

^  Afterward  called  St.  Oluf, 


r60  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

through  the  stubborn  ground  ;  before  the  day  breaks  the 
waters  of  the  Malar  roll  there  ;  the  Norwegian  prince,  Oluf, 
sailed  through  the  royal  channel  he  had  cut  in  the  east.  The 
stockades  where  the  iron  chains  hang  must  bear  the  defenses ; 
the  citizens  from  the  burnt-down  Sigtuna  erect  themselves  a 
bulwark  here,  and  build  their  new  little  town  on  stock-holms.^ 

The  clouds  go,  and  the  years  go !  Do  you  see  how  the  ga- 
bles grow.  There  rise  towers  and  forts.  Birger  Jarl  makes 
the  town  of  Stockholm  a  fortress  ;  the  warders  stand  with  bow 
and  arrow  on  the  walls,  reconnoitering  over  lake  and  fjord, 
over  Brunkeberg  sand  ridge.  There  where  the  sand  ridge 
slopes  upward  from  Rorstrand's  Lake  they  build  Clara  Clois- 
ter, and  between  it  and  the  town  a  street  springs  up  ;  several 
more  appear ;  they  form  an  extensive  city,  which  soon  becomes 
the  place  of  contest  for  different  partisans  —  where  Ladelaas's 
sons  plant  the  banner,  and  where  the  German  Albrecht's  re- 
tainers burn  the  Swedes  alive  within  its  walls.  Stockholm  is, 
however,  the  heart  of  the  kingdom :  that  the  Danes  know 
well ;  that  the  Swedes  know  too,  and  there  is  strife  and  bloody 
combating.  Blood  flows  by  the  executioner's  hand ;  Den- 
mark's Christian  II.,  Sweden's  executioner,  stands  in  the  mar- 
ket-place. 

Roll  ye  runes !  see  over  Brunkeberg  sand  ridge,  where  the 
Swedish  people  conquered  the  Danish  host,  there  they  raise 
the  ]\Iay-pole  :  it  is  Midsummer  Eve  —  Gustavus  Vasa  makes 
his  entry  into  Stockholm. 

Around  the  May-pole  there  grow  fruit  and  kitchen-gardens, 
houses  and  streets  ;  they  vanish  in  flames,  they  rise  again  ; 
that  gloomy  fortress  toward  the  tower  is  transformed  into  a 
palace,  and  the  city  stands  magnificently,  with  towers  and 
draw-bridges.  There  grows  a  town  by  itself  on  the  sand  ridge, 
a  third  springs  up  on  the  rock  toward  the  south ;  the  old 
walls  fall  at  Gustavus  Adolphus's  command  ;  the  three  towns 
are  one,  large  and  extensive,  picturesquely  varied  with  old 
stone  houses,  wooden  shops,  and  grass-roofed  huts  ;  the  sun 
shines  on  the  brass  balls  of  the  towers,  and  a  forest  of  masts 
stands  in  that  secure  harbor. 

1  Stock  signifies  bulks,  or  beams ;  holms,  i.  e.  islets,  or  river  islands ; 
hence  Stockholm. 


STOCKHOLM.  1 6  I 

Rays  of  beauty  shoot  forth  into  the  world  from  Versailles' 
painted  divinity ;  they  reach  the  Malar's  strand,  into  Tessin's  ^ 
palace,  where  art  and  science  are  invited  as  guests  with  the 
King,  Gustavus  III.,  whose  effigy,  cast  in  bronze,  is  raised  on 
the  strand  before  the  splendid  palace  —  it  is  in  our  times.  The 
acacia  shades  the  palace's  high  terrace,  on  whose  broad  balus- 
trades flowers  send  forth  their  perfume  from  Saxon  porcelain  ; 
variegated  silk  curtains  hang  half-way  down  before  the  large 
glass  windows  ;  the  floors  are  polished  smooth  as  a  mirror, 
and  under  the  arch  yonder,  where  the  roses  grow  by  the  wall, 
the  Endymion  of  Greece  lives  eternally  in  marble.  As  a 
guard  of  honor,  here  stand  Fogelberg's  "  Odin,"  and  Sergei's 
"  Amor  and  Psyche.  " 

We  now  descend  the  broad,  royal  staircase,  and  before  it, 
where,  in  by-gone  times,  Oluf  Skotkonge  stretched  the  iron 
chains  across  the  mouth  of  the  Malar  Lake,  there  is  now  a 
splendid  bridge,  with  shops  above  and  the  Streamparterre  be- 
low :  there  we  see  the  little  steamer  Nocken^  steering  its  way, 
filled  with  passengers  from  Diurgarden  to  the  "  Strompar- 
terre."  And  what  is  the  Stromparterre  1  The  Neapolitans 
would  tell  us:  It  is  in  miniature  —  quite  in  miniature  —  the 
Stockholmers'  "  Villa  Reale."  The  Hamburgers  would  say : 
It  is  in  miniature  —  quite  in  miniature  —  the  Stockholmers' 
"  Jungfernstieg." 

It  is  a  very  little  semicircular  island,  on  which  the  arches 
of  the  bridge  rest ;  a  garden  full  of  flowers  and  trees,  which 
we  overlook  from  the  high  parapet  of  the  bridge.  Ladies  and 
gentlemen  promenade  there  ;  musicians  play,  families  sit  there 
in  groups,  and  take  refreshments  in  the  vaulted  halls  under 
the  bridge,  and  look  out  between  the  green  trees  over  the  open 
water,  to  the  houses  and  mansions,  and  also  to  the  woods  and 
rocks  :  we  forget  that  we  are  in  the  midst  of  the  city. 

It  is  the  bridge  here  that  unites  Stockholm  with  Norrmalm, 
where  the  greatest  part  of  the  fashionable  world  live,  in  two 
long  Berlin-like  streets ;  yet  amongst  all  the  great  houses  we 
will  only  visit  one,  and  that  is  the  theatre. 

We  will  go  on  the  stage  itself — it  has  an  historical  signifi- 

^  The  architect  Tessin. 
^  The  water-sprite. 
II 


1 62  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

cance.  Here,  by  the  third  side-scene  from  the  stage-lights,  to 
the  right,  as  we  look  down  toward  the  audience,  Gustavus  III. 
was  assassinated  at  a  masquerade ;  and  he  was  borne  into  that 
little  chamber  there,  close  by  the  scene,  whilst  all  the  outlets 
were  closed,  and  the  motley  group  of  harlequins,  punchinellos, 
wild  men,  gods  and  goddesses  with  unmasked  faces,  pale  and 
terrified,  crept  together  ;  the  ballet-farce  had  become  a  real 
tragedy. 

This  theatre  is  Jenny  Lind's  child^iood's  home.  Here  she 
has  sung  in  the  choruses  when  a  little  girl ;  here  she  first  made 
her  appearance  in  public,  and  was  cheeringly  encouraged  when 
a  child  ;  here,  poor  and  sorrowful,  she  has  shed  tears,  when 
her  voice  left  her,  and  sent  up  pious  prayers  to  her  Maker. 
From  hence  the  world's  nightingale  flew  out  over  distant  lands, 
and  proclaimed  the  purity  and  holiness  of  art. 

How  beautiful  it  is  to  look  out  from  the  window  up  here,  to 
look  over  the  water  and  the  Streamparterre  to  that  great,  mag- 
nificent palace,  to  Ladugaards  land,  with  the  large  barracks  ; 
to  the  Skibsholm  and  the  rocks  that  rise  straight  up  from  the 
water,  with  Sodermalm's  gardens,  villas,  streets,  and  church 
cupolas  between  the  green  trees:  the  ships  lie  there  together, 
so  many  and  so  close,  with  their  waving  flags.  The  beautiful, 
that  a  poet's  eye  sees,  the  world  may  also  see !  Roll,  ye 
runes ! 

There  stretches  the  whole  varied  prospect ;  a  rainbow  ex- 
tends its  arches  like  a  frame  around  it.  Only  see  !  it  is  sun- 
set, the  sky  becomes  cloudy  over  Sodermalm,  the  gray  sky  be- 
comes darker  and  darker  —  a  pitch-dark  ground  —  and  on  it 
rests  a  double  rainbow.  The  houses  are  illumined  by  so  strong 
a  sunlight  that  the  walls  seem  transparent ;  the  linden-trees  in 
the  gardens,  which  have  lately  put  forth  their  leaves,  appear 
like  fresh  young  woods  ;  the  long,  narrow  windows  in  the 
Gothic  buildings  on  the  island  shine  as  if  it  were  a  festal  illu- 
mination, and  between  the  dark  firs  there  falls  a  lustre  from 
the  panes  behind  them  as  of  a  thousand  flames,  as  if  the  trees 
were  covered  with  flickering  Christmas  candles ;  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow  become  stronger  and  stronger,  the  background 
darker  and  darker,  and  the  white  sunlit  sea-gulls  fly  past. 

The  rainbow  has  placed  one  foot  high  up  on  Sodermalm's 


STOCKHOLM.  1 63 

church-yard.  Where  the  rainbow  touches  the  earth,  there  he 
treasures  buried,  is  a  popular  belief  here.  The  rainbow  rests 
on  a  grave  up  there :  Stagnalius  rests  hei^e,  Sweden's  most 
gifted  singer,  so  young  and  so  unliappy  ;  and  in  the  same  grave 
lies  Nicander,  he  who  sang  about  King  Enzio,  and  of  "Lejonet  i 
Oken  ;  "  ^  who  sang  with  a  bleeding  heart :  the  fresh  vine  leaf 
cooled  the  wound  and  killed  the  singer.  Peace  be  with  his 
dust  —  may  his  songs  live  forever  !  We  go  to  your  grave 
where  the  rainbow  points.  The  view  from  here  is  splendid. 
The  houses  rise  terrace-like  in  the  steep,  paved  streets ;  the 
foot-passengers  can,  however,  shorten  the  way  by  going  through 
narrow  lanes,  and  up  steps  made  of  thick  beams,  and  always 
with  a  prospect  downward  of  the  water,  of  the  rocks  and  green 
trees  !  It  is  delightful  to  dwell  here,  it  is  healthy  to  dwell  here, 
but  it  is  not  genteel,  as  it  is  by  Brunkeberg's  sand  ridge,  yet  it 
will  become  so  :  Stockholm's  "  Strada  Balbi  "  will  one  day  arise 
on  Sodermalm's  rocky  ground. 

We  stand  up  here.  What  other  city  in  the  world  has  a 
better  prospect  over  the  salt  fjord,  over  the  fresh  lake,  over 
towers,  cupolas,  heaped-up  houses,  and  a  palace,  which  King 
Enzio  himself  might  have  built,  and  round  about  the  dark, 
gloomy  forests  with  oaks,  pines,  and  firs,  so  Scandinavian, 
dreaming  in  the  declining  sun  ?  It  is  twilight ;  the  night 
comes  on,  the  lamps  are  lighted  in  the  city  below,  the  stars 
are  kindled  in  the  firmament  above,  and  the  tower  of  Ridder- 
holm's  church  rises  aloft  toward  the  starry  space.  The  stars 
shine  through  there ;  it  is  as  if  cut  in  lace,  but  every  thread 
is  of  cast-iron  and  of  the  thickness  of  beams. 

We  go  down  there,  and  in  there,  in  the  stilly  eve.  A  world 
of  spirits  reigns  within.  See,  in  the  vaulted  isles,  on  carved 
wooden  horses,  sits  armor  that  was  once  borne  by  Magnus 
Ladulaas,  Christian  II.,  and  Charles  IX.  A  thousand  flags 
that  once  waved  to  the  peal  of  music  and  the  clang  of  arms, 
to  the  darted  javelin  and  the  cannon's  roar,  moulder  away 
here :  they  hang  in  long  rags  from  the  staff,  and  the  staves 
lie  cast  aside,  where  the  flag  has  long  since  become  dust. 
Almost  all  the  Kings  of  Sweden  slumber  in  silver  and  copper 
coffins  within  these  walls,  from  the  altar  aisle  we  look 
1  "  The  Lion  in  the  desert ;  "  i.  e.  Napoleon. 


164  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

through  the  open  grated  door,  in  between  piled-up  drums  and 
hanging  flags :  here  is  preserved  a  bloody  tunic,  and  in  the 
cofiin  are  the  remains  of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  Who  is  that 
dead  opposite  neighbor  in  the  chapel,  across  there  in  the  other 
side-aisle  of  the  church  ?  There,  below  a  glass  lid,  lies  a  dress 
shot  through,  and  on  the  floor  stands  a  pair  of  long,  thick 
boots  ;  they  belonged  to  the  hero-king,  the  wanderer,  Charles 
XII.,  whose  realm  is  now  this  narrow  coffin. 

How  sacred  it  is  here  under  this  vaulted  roof!  The  might- 
iest men  of  centuries  are  gathered  together  here,  perishable  as 
these  moth-eaten  flags  —  mute  and  yet  so  eloquent.  And 
without  there  is  life  and  activit}' :  the  world  goes  on  in  its  old 
course  ;  generations  change  in  the  old  houses  ;  the  houses 
change — yet  Stockholm  is  always  the  heart  of  Sweden,  Bir- 
ger's  cit}^,  whose  features  are  continually  renewed,  continually 
beautified. 


XII. 


DIURGARDEN. 


DIURGÅRDEN  is  a  large  piece  of  land  made  into  a  gar- 
den by  our  Lord  Himself.  Come  with  us  over  there. 
We  are  still  in  the  city,  but  before  the  palace  lie  the  broad  hewn 
stone  stairs,  leading  down  to  the  water,  where  the  Dalkulls  — 
/.  e.,  the  Dalecarlian  women  —  stand  and  ring  with  metal  bells. 
On  board !  here  are  boats  enough  to  choose  amongst,  all  with 
wheels,  which  the  Dalkulls  turn.  In  coarse  white  linen,  red 
stockings  with  green  heels,  and  singularly  thick-soled  shoes, 
with  the  upper-leather  right  up  the  shin-bone,  stands  the  Dal- 
kull ;  she  has  ornamented  the  boat,  that  now  shoots  away,  with 
green  branches.  Houses  and  streets  rise  and  unfold  them- 
selves ;  churches  and  gardens  start  forth  ;  they  stand  on  So- 
dermalm  high  above  the  tops  of  the  ships'  masts.  The  scenery 
reminds  one  of  the  Bosphorus  and  Pera :  the  motley  dress  of 
the  Dalkulls  is  quite  Oriental  —  and  listen!  the  wind  bears 
melancholy  Skalmeie  tones  out  to  us.  Two  poor  Dalecarlians 
are  making  music  on  the  quay  ;  they  are  the  same  drawn-out, 
melancholy  tones  that  are  played  by  the  Bulgarian  musicians 
in  the  streets  of  Pera.  We  step  out,  and  are  in  the  Diurgar- 
den. 

What  a  crowd  of  equipages  pass  in  rows  through  the  broad 
avenue  !  and  what  a  throng  of  well-dressed  pedestrians  of  all 
classes  !  One  thinks  of  the  garden  of  the  Villa  Borghese,  when, 
at  the  time  of  the  wine  feast,  the  Roman  people  and  strangers 
take  the  air  there.  We  are  in  the  Borghese  Garden ;  we  are 
by  the  Bosphorus,  and  yet  far  in  the  North.  The  pine-tree 
rises  large  and  free ;  the  birch  droops  its  branches,  as  the 
weeping-willow  alone  has  power  to  do  —  and  what  magnifi- 
cently grand  oaks !  The  pine-trees  themselves  are  mighty 
trees,  beautiful   to  the  painter's   eye  ;   splendid   green  grass 


1 66  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

plains  lie  stretched  before  us,  and  the  fjord  rolls  its  green  deep 
waters  close  past,  as  if  it  were  a  river.  Large  ships  with  swell- 
ing sails,  the  one  high  above  the  other,  steamers  and  boats, 
come  and  go  in  varied  numbers. 

Come  !  let  us  go  to  Bystrom's  villa  ;  it  lies  on  the  stony  cliff 
up  there,  where  the  large  oak-trees  stand  in  their  stubborn 
grandeur  :  we  see  from  here  the  whole  tripartite  city.  Soder - 
malm.  Nordmalm,  and  the  island  with  that  huge  palace.  It  is 
delightful  that  it  should  have  been  placed  here  on  this  rock, 
and  stands  built  almost  entirely  of  marble,  a  "  Casa  santa 
d'ltalia,"  as  if  borne  through  the  air  here  in  the  North.  The 
walls  within  are  painted  in  the  Pompeiian  style,  but  heavy  :  there 
is  nothing  genial.  Round  about  stand  large  marble  figures  by 
Bystrom,  which  have  not,  however,  the  soul  of  antiquity.  Ma- 
donna is  incumbered  by  her  heavy  marble  drapery  ;  the  girl 
with  the  flower-garland  is  an  ugly  young  thing ;  and  on  seeing 
Hero  with  the  weeping  Cupid,  one  thinks  of  a  pose  arranged 
by  a  ballet-master. 

Let  us,  however,  see  what  is  pretty.  The  little  Cupid-seller 
is  pretty,  and  the  stone  is  made  as  flexible  as  life  in  the  waists 
of  the  bathing-women.  One  of  them,  as  she  steps  out,  feels  the 
water  with  her  feet,  and  we  feel,  with  her,  a  sensation  that  the 
water  is  cold.  The  coolness  of  the  marble  hall  realizes  this 
feeling.  Let  us  go  out  into  the  sunshine,  and  up  to  the 
neighboring  cliff,  which  rises  above  the  mansions  and  houses. 
Here  the  wild  roses  shoot  forth  from  the  crevices  in  the  rock  ; 
the  sunbeams  fall  prettily  between  the  splendid  pines  and  the 
graceful  birches,  upon  the  high  grass  before  the  colossal  bronze 
bust  of  Bellmann.  This  place  was  the  favorite  one  of  that 
Scandinavian  improvisatore.  Here  he  lay  in  the  grass,  com- 
posed and  sang  his  anacreontic  songs,  and  here,  in  the  sum- 
mer-time, his  annual  festival  is  held.  We  will  raise  his  altar 
here  in  the  red  evening  sunlight.  It  is  a  flaming  bowl,  raised 
high  on  the  jolly  tun,  and  it  is  wreathed  with  roses.  Movits 
tries  his  hunting-horn,  that  which  was  Oberon's  horn,  in  the 
inn-parlor,  and  everything  danced,  from  Ulla  to  "  Mutter  paa 
Tuppen : "  ^  they  stamped  with  their  feet  and  clapped  their 
hands,  and  clinked  the  pewter  lid  of  the  ale-tankard :  "  Hej 
1  The  landlady  of  an  ale-house. 


DIURGARDEN.  1 6  7 

kara  Sjæl !  fukta  din  aska  !  "  (Hey !  dear  soul  !  moisten  your 
clay). 

A  Teniers'  picture  became  animated,  and  still  lives  in  song. 
Movits  blows  the  horn  on  Bellmann's  place  around  the  flowing 
bowl,  and  whole  crowds  dance  in  a  circle,  young  and  old  ;  the 
carriages  too,  horses  and  wagons,  filled  bottles  and  clatter- 
ing tankards  :  the  Bellmann  dithyrambic  clangs  melodiously  ; 
humor  and  low  life,  sadness  —  and  amongst  others,  about 

"  Hur  ogat  gret 

Ved  de  Cypresser,  som  stroddes."  ^ 

Painter,  seize  thy  brush  and  palette  and  paint  the  Mænad 
—  but  not  her  who  treads  the  wine-bag  whilst  her  hair  flutters 
in  the  wind,  and  she  sings  ecstatic  songs.  No,  but  the  Mænad 
that  ascends  from  Bellmann's  steaming  bowl  is  the  Punch's 
Anadyomene  —  she,  with  the  high  heels  to  the  red  shoes,  with 
rosettes  on  her  gown  and  with  fluttering  veil  and  mantilla  — 
fluttering,  far  too  fluttering !  She  plucks  the  rose  of  poetry 
from  her  breast  and  sets  it  in  the  ale-can's  spout ;  clinks  with 
the  lid,  sings  about  the  clang  of  the  hunting-horn,  about 
breeches  and  old  shoes,  and  all  manner  of  stuff.  Yet  we  are 
sensible  that  he  is  a  true  poet ;  we  see  two  human  eyes  shin- 
ing, that  announce  to  us  the  human  heart's  sadness  and  hope. 
^  How  the  eyes  wept  by  the  cypresses  that  were  strewn  around. 


XIII. 

A   STORY. 

ALL  the  apple-trees  in  the  garden  had  burst  forth.  They 
had  made  haste  to  get  blossoms  before  they  got  green 
leaves  ;  and  all  the  ducklings  were  out  in  the  yard  —  and  the 
cat  too  !  He  was,  so  to  speak,  permeated  by  the  sunshine  ; 
he  licked  it  from  his  own  paws  :  and  if  one  looked  toward 
the  fields,  one  saw  the  corn  standing  so  charmingly  green! 
And  there  was  such  a  twittering  and  chirping  amongst  all  the 
small  birds,  just  as  if  it  were  a  great  feast.  And  that  one 
might  indeed  say  it  was,  for  it  was  Sunday.  The  bells  rang, 
and  people  in  their  best  clothes  went  to  church,  and  looked 
so  pleased.  Yes,  there  was  something  so  pleasant  in  every- 
thing :  it  was  indeed  so  fine  and  warm  a  day,  that  one  might 
well  say :  "  Our  Lord  is  certainly  unspeakably  good  toward  us 
poor  mortals  !  " 

But  the  clergj^-nan  stood  in  the  pulpit  in  the  church,  and 
spoke  loud  and  angrily  !  He  said  that  mankind  was  wicked, 
and  that  God  would  punish  them  for  it,  and  that  when  they 
died,  the  wicked  went  down  into  hell,  where  they  would  burn 
forever  ;  and  he  said  that  their  worm  would  never  die,  and 
their  fire  never  be  extinguished,  nor  would  they  ever  get  rest 
and  peace  ! 

It  was  terrible  to  hear,  and  he  said  it  so  determinedly.  He 
described  hell  to  them  as  a  pestilential  hole,  where  all  the 
filthiness  of  the  world  flowed  together.  There  was  no  air 
except  the  hot,  sulphureous  flames ;  there  was  no  bottom  ; 
they  sank  and  sank  into  everlasting  silence  !  It  was  terrible, 
only  to  hear  about  it ;  but  the  clergyman  said  it  right  hon- 
estly out  of  his  heart,  and  all  the  people  in  the  church  were 
quite  terrified.  But  all  the  little  birds  outside  the  church  sang 
pleasantly,  and  were  pleased,  and  the  sun  shone  so  warm :  it 


A  STORY.  169 

was  as  if  every  little  flower  said  :  "  God  is  so  wondrous  good 
to  us  altogether ! "  Yes,  outside  it  was  not  at  all  as  the 
clergyman  preached. 

In  the  evening,  when  it  was  bed-time,  the  clergyman  saw 
his  wife  sit  still  and  thoughtful. 

"  What  ails  you  ?  "  he  said  to  her. 

"What  ails  me?"  she  replied;  "what  ails  me  is^  that  I 
cannot  collect  my  thoughts  rightly  —  that  I  cannot  rightly  un- 
derstand what  you  said  ;  that  there  were  so  many  wicked,  and 
that  they  should  burn  eternally  !  —  eternally  alas  how  long!  I 
am  but  a  sinful  being  ;  but  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  in  my 
heart  to  allow  even  the  worst  sinner  to  burn  forever.  And  how 
then  should  our  Lord  permit  it  ?  He  who  is  so  wondrously 
good,  and  who  knows  how  evil  comes  both  from  without  and 
within.     No,  I  cannot  believe  it,  though  you  say  it."    ...    . 

It  was  autumn.  The  leaves  fell  from  the  trees  ;  the  grave, 
severe  clergyman  sat  by  the  bedside  of  a  dying  person  ;  a 
pious  believer  closed  her  eyes  —  it  was  the  clergyman's  own 
wife. 

"If  any  one  find  peace  in  the  grave,  and  grace  from  God, 
then  it  is  thou,"  said  the  clergyman,  and  he  folded  her  hands, 
and  read  a  psalm  over  the  dead  body. 

And  she  was  borne  to  the  grave  :  two  heavy  tears  trickled 
down  that  stern  man's  cheeks  ;  and  it  was  still  and  vacant  in 
the  parsonage  ;  the  sunshine  within  was  extinguished :  she 
was  gone. 

It  was  night.  A  cold  wind  blew  over  the  clergyman's  head  ; 
he  opened  his  eyes,  and  it  was  just  as  if  the  moon  shone  into 
his  room.  But  the  moon  did  not  shine.  It  was  a  figure  which 
stood  before  his  bed  —  he  saw  the  spirit  of  his  deceased  wife. 
She  looked  on  him  singularly  afflicted  ;  it  seemed  as  though 
she  would  say  something. 

The  man  raised  himself  half  erect  in  bed,  and  stretched  his 
arms  out  toward  her. 

"  Not  even  to  thee  is  granted  everlasting  peace.  Thou  dost 
suffer  ;  thou,  the  best,  the  most  pious  !  " 

And  the  dead  bent  her  head  in  confirmation  of  his  words, 
and  laid  her  hand  on  her  breast. 

"  And  can  I  procure  you  peace  in  the  grave  ?  " 


I  -o  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

"  Yes  !  "  it  sounded  in  his  ear. 

"  And  how  ?  " 

"  Give  me  a  hair,  but  a  single  hair,  of  the  head  of  that  sin- 
ner whose  fire  will  never  be  quenched  ;  that  sinner  whom 
God  will  cast  down  into  hell,  to  everlasting  torment." 

"  Yes  ;  so  easily  thou  canst  be  liberated,  thou  pure,  thou 
pious  one  !  "  said  he. 

"  Then  follow  me,"  said  the  dead ;  "  thus  it  is  granted  us. 
Thou  canst  be  by  my  side,  wheresoever  thy  thoughts  will. 
Invisible  to  mankind,  we  stand  in  their  most  secret  places ; 
but  thou  must  point  with  a  sure  hand  to  the  one  destined 
to  eternal  punishment,  and  ere  the  cock  crow  he  must  be 
found." 

And  swift,  as  if  borne  on  wings  of  thought,  they  were  in 
the  great  city,  and  the  names  of  the  dying  sinners  shone  from 
the  walls  of  the  houses  in  letters  of  fire  :  "  Arrogance,  Ava- 
rice, Drunkenness,  Voluptuousness  ; "  in  short,  sin's  whole 
seven-colored  arch. 

"Yes,  in  there,  as  I  thought  it,  as  I  knew  it,"  said  the 
clergyman,  "  are  housed  those  condemned  to  eternal  fire." 

And  they  stood  before  the  splendidly-illumined  portico, 
where  the  broad  stairs  were  covered  with  carpets  and  flowers, 
and  the  music  of  the  dance  sounded  through  the  festal  saloons. 
The  porter  stood  there  in  silk  and  velvet,  with  a  large  silver- 
headed  stick. 

"  Our  ball  can  match  with  the  King's,"  said  he,  and  turned 
toward  the  crowd  in  the  street :  his  magnificent  thoughts 
were  visible  in  his  whole  person.  "  Poor  devils !  who  stare 
in  at  the  portico,  you  are  altogether  ragamuffins,  compared  to 
me!" 

"  Arrogance,"  said  the  dead  ;  "  dost  thou  see  him  ? " 

"  Him  !  "  repeated  the  clergyman  ;  "  he  is  a  simpleton  — 
a  fool  only,  and  will  not  be  condemned  to  eternal  fire  and 
torment." 

"  A  fool  only,"  sounded  through  the  whole  house  of  Arro- 
gance. 

And  they  flew  into  the  four  bare  walls  of  Avarice,  where 
skinny,  shivering  with  cold,  hungry  and  thirsty,  the  old  man 
clung  fast  with  all  his  thoughts  to  his  gold.    They  saw  how  he, 


A  STORY. 


171 


as  in  a  fever,  sprang  from  his  wretched  pallet,  and  took  a  loose 
stone  out  of  the  wall.  There  lay  gold  coins  in  a  stocking-foot ; 
he  fumbled  at  his  ragged  tunic,  in  which  gold  coins  were 
sewed  fast,  and  his  moist  fingers  trembled. 

"  He  is  ill :  it  is  insanity ;  encircled  by  fear  and  evil 
dreams." 

And  they  flew  away  in  haste,  and  stood  by  the  criminals' 
wooden  couch,  where  they  slept  side  by  side  in  long  rows. 
One  of  them  started  up  from  his  sleep  like  a  wild  animal,  and 
uttered  a  hideous  scream  :  he  struck  his  companion  with  his 
sharp  elbow,  and  the  latter  turned  sleepily  round. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  beast,  and  sleep  !  this  is  your  way 
every  night !  Every  night ! '"  he  repeated  ;  "  yes,  you  come 
every  night,  howling  and  choking  me  !  I  have  done  one  thing 
or  another  in  a  passion  ;  I  was  born  with  a  passionate  temper, 
and  it  has  brought  me  in  here  a  second  time  ;  but  if  I  have 
done  wrong,  so  have  I  also  got  my  punishment.  But  one 
thing  I  have  not  confessed.  When  I  last  went  out  from  here 
and  passed  by  my  master's  farm,  one  thing  and  another  boiled 
up  in  me,  and  I  directly  stroked  a  lucifer  against  the  wall :  it 
came  a  little  too  near  the  thatch,  and  everything  was  burnt  — 
hot-headedness  came  over  it,  just  as  it  comes  over  me.  I 
helped  to  save  the  cattle  and  furniture.  Nothing  living  was 
burnt,  except  a  flock  of  pigeons,  —  they  flew  into  the  flames,  — 
and  the  yard  dog.  I  had  not  thought  of  the  dog.  I  could 
hear  it  howl,  and  that  howl  I  always  hear  yet,  when  I  would 
sleep  ;  and  if  I  do  get  to  sleep,  the  dog  comes  also  —  so 
large  and  hairy !  He  lies  down  on  me,  howls,  and  strangles 
me  !  Do  but  hear  what  I  am  telling  you.  Snore  —  yes,  that 
you  can  —  snore  the  whole  night  through,  and  I  not  even  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  !  " 

And  the  blood  shone  from  the  eyes  of  the  fiery  one  ;  he 
fell  on  his  companion,  and  struck  him  in  the  face  with  his 
clinched  fist. 

"  Angry  Mads  has  become  mad  again !  "  resounded  on  all 
sides,  and  the  other  rascals  seized  hold  of  him,  wrestled  with 
him,  and  bent  him  double,  so  that  his  head  was  forced  be- 
tween his  legs,  where  they  bound  it  fast,  so  that  the  blood  was 
nearly  springing  out  of  his  eyes,  and  all  the  pores. 


172 


PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 


"  You  will  kill  him  !  "  said  the  clergyman  ;  "  poor  unfortu- 
nate !  "  and  as  he  stretched  his  hands  out  over  him,  who  had 
already  suffered  too  severely,  in  order  to  prevent  further  mis- 
chief, the  scene  changed. 

They  flew  through  rich  halls,  and  through  poor  chambers  ; 
voluptuousness  and  envy,  all  mortal  sins,  strode  past  them.  A 
recording  angel  read  their  sin  and  their  defense ;  this  was 
assuredly  little  for  God,  for  God  reads  the  heart ;  He  knows 
perfectly  the  evil  that  comes  within  it  and  from  without,  He, 
grace,  all  loving-kindness.  The  hand  of  the  clergyman  trem- 
bled :  he  did  not  venture  to  stretch  it  out,  to  pluck  a  hair  from 
the  sinner's  head.  And  the  tears  streamed  down  from  his  eyes, 
like  the  waters  of  grace  and  love,  which  quenched  the  eternal 
fire  of  hell. 

The  cock  then  crow-ed. 

"  Merciful  God !  Thou  wilt  grant  her  that  peace  in  the 
grave  which  I  have  not  been  able  to  redeem." 

"  That  I  now  have  !  "  said  the  dead  ;  "  it  was  thy  hard  words, 
thy  dark,  human  belief  of  God  and  his  creatures,  which  drove 
me  to  thee  !  Learn  to  know  mankind  ;  even  in  the  bad  there 
is  a  part  of  God  —  a  part  that  will  conquer  and  quench  the 
fire  of  hell." 

And  a  kiss  was  pressed  on  the  clergj'man's  lips :  it  shone 
around  him.  God's  clear,  bright  sun  shone  into  the  chamber, 
where  his  wife,  living,  mild,  and  affectionate,  awoke  him  from 
a  dream,  sent  from  God ! 


XIV. 

UPSALA. 

IT  is  commonly  said  that  Memory  is  a  young  girl  with  light- 
blue  eyes.  Most  poets  say  so  ;  but  we  cannot  always 
agree  with  most  poets.  To  us  Memory  comes  in  quite  differ- 
ent forms,  all  according  to  that  land,  or  that  town  to  which  she 
belongs.  Italy  sends  her  as  a  charming  Mignon,  with  black 
eyes  and  a  melancholy  smile,  singing  Bellini's  soft,  touching 
songs.  From  Scotland,  Memory's  sprite  appears  as  a  power- 
ful lad  with  bare  knees ;  the  plaid  hangs  over  his  shoulder, 
the  thistle-flower  is  fixed  on  his  cap  ;  Burns's  songs  then  fill 
the  air  like  the  heath-lark's  song,  and  Scotland's  wild  thistle 
flowers  beautifully  fragrant  as  the  fresh  rose.  But  now  for 
Memory's  sprite  from  Sweden,  from  Upsula.  He  comes 
thence  in  the  form  of  a  student  —  at  least,  he  wears  the  Up- 
sala  student's  white  cap  with  the  black  rim.  To  us  it  points 
out  its  home,  as  the  Phrygian  cap  denotes  Ganymede. 

It  was  in  the  year  1843  that  the  Danish  students  travelled 
to  Upsala.  Young  hearts  met  together  ;  eyes  sparkled  :  they 
laughed,  they  sang.  Young  hearts  are  the  future  —  the  con- 
quering future  —  in  the  beautiful,  true,  and  good  ;  it  is  so  good 
that  brothers  should  know  and  love  each  other.  Friendship's 
meeting  is  still  annually  remembered  in  the  palace-yard  of 
Upsala,  before  the  monument  of  Gustavus  Vasa  —  by  the 
hurra !  for  Denmark,  in  warm-hearted  compliment  to  me. 

Two  summers  afterward,  the  visit  was  returned.  The  Swe- 
dish students  came  to  Copenhagen,  and  that  they  might  there 
be  known  amongst  the  multitude,  the  Upsala  students  wore  a 
white  cap  with  a  black  rim  :  this  cap  is  accordingly  a  memorial, 
—  the  sign  of  friendship's  bridge  over  that  river  of  blood  which 
once  flowed  between  kindred  nations.  When  one  meets  in 
heart  and  spirit,  a  blissful  seed  is  then  sown.    Memory's  sprite, 


1/4 


PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 


come  to  us  !  we  know  thee  by  the  cap  from  Upsala :  be  thou 
our  guide,  and  from  our  more  southern  home,  after  years  and 
days,  we  will  make  the  voyage  over  again,  quicker  than  if  we 
flew  in  Doctor  Faustus's  magic  cloak.  We  are  in  Stockholm  : 
we  stand  on  the  Ridderholm  where  the  steamers  lie  alongside 
the  docks  :  one  of  them  sends  forth  clouds  of  thick  smoke 
from  its  chimney ;  the  deck  is  crowded  with  passengers,  and 
the  white  cap  with  the  black  rim  is  not  wanting. 

We  are  off  to  Upsala  ;  the  paddles  strike  the  waters  of  the 
Malar,  and  we  shoot  away  from  the  picturesque  city  of  Stock- 
holm. The  whole  voyage,  direct  to  Upsala,  is  a  kaleidoscope 
on  a  large  scale.  It  is  true,  there  is  nothing  of  the  magical  in 
the  scener}',  but  landscape  gives  place  to  landscape,  and  clouds 
and  sunshine  refresh  their  variegated  beauty.  The  Malar  Lake 
curves,  is  compressed,  and  widens  again  :  it  is  as  if  one  passed 
from  lake  to  lake  through  narrow  canals  and  broad  rivers. 
Sometimes  it  appears  as  if  the  lake  ended  in  small  rivulets 
between  dark  pines  and  rocks,  when  suddenly  another  large 
lake,  surrounded  by  corn-fields  and  meadows,  opens  itself  to 
view  :  the  light-green  linden-trees,  which  have  just  unfolded 
their  leaves,  shine  forth  before  the  dark  gray  rocks.  Again  a 
new  lake  opens  before  us,  with  islets,  trees,  and  red-painted 
houses,  and  during  the  whole  voyage  there  is  a  lively  arrival 
and  departure  of  passengers,  in  flat-bottomed  boats,  which  are 
nearly  upset  in  the  billowy  wake  of  the  vessel. 

It  appears  most  dangerous  opposite  to  Sigtuna,  Sweden's 
old  royal  city:  the  lake  is  broad  here;  the  waves  rise  as  if 
they  were  the  waters  of  the  ocean  ;  the  boats  rock  —  it  is  fear- 
ful to  look  at !  But  there  must  be  a  calm  ;  and  Sigtuna,  that 
little  interesting  town  where  the  old  towers  stand  in  ruins, 
like  outposts  along  the  rocks,  reflects  itself  in  the  water. 

We  fly  past !  and  now  we  are  in  Tyris  rivulet !  Part  of  a 
meadow  is  flooded  ;  a  herd  of  horses  become  shy  from  the 
snorting  of  the  steamer's  engine  ;  they  dash  through  the  water 
in  the  meadow,  and  it  spurts  up  all  over  them.  It  glitters  there 
between  the  trees  on  the  declivity  :  the  Upsala  students  lie 
encamped  there,  and  exercise  themselves  in  the  use  of  arms. 

The  rivulet  forms  a  bay,  and  the  high  plain  extends  itself. 
We  see  old  Upsala's  hills  \  we  see  Upsala's  city  with  its  church, 


UPS  AL  A.  175 

which,  like  Notre  Dame,  raises  its  stony  arms  toward  heaven. 
The  university  rises  to  the  view,  in  appearance  half  palace  and 
half  barracks,  and  there  aloft,  on  the  greensward-clothed  bank, 
stands  the  old  red-painted  huge  palace  with  its  towers. 

We  stop  at  the  bulwark  near  the  arched  bridge,  and  so  go 
on  shore.  Whither  wilt  thou  conduct  us  first,  thou  our  guide 
with  the  white  and  black  student's  cap  ?  Shall  we  go  up  to 
the  palace,  or  to  Linnæus's  garden  !  or  shall  we  go  to  the 
church-yard  where  the  nettles  grow  over  Geijer's  and  Tornero's 
graves  ?  No,  but  to  the  young  and  the  living  Upsala's  life  — 
the  students.  Thou  tellest  us  about  them  ;  we  hear  the  heart's 
pulsations,  and  our  hearts  beat  in  sympathy  ! 

In  the  first  year  of  the  war  between  Denmark  and  the  in- 
surgents, many  a  brave  Upsala  student  left  his  quiet,  com- 
fortable home,  and  entered  the  ranks  with  his  Danish  brothers. 
The  Upsala  students  gave  up  their  most  joyous  festival  —  the 
May-day  festival  —  and  the  money  they  at  other  times  used  to 
contribute  annually  toward  the  celebration  thereof,  they  sent 
to  the  Danes,  after  the  sum  had  been  increased  by  concerts 
which  were  given  in  Stockholm  and  Westerås.  That  circum- 
stance will  not  be  forgotten  in  Denmark. 

Upsala  student,  thou  art  dear  to  us  by  thy  disposition  ! 
thou  art  dear  to  us  from  thy  lively  jests!  We  will  mention 
a  trait  thereof  In  Upsala,  it  had  become  the  fashion  to 
be  Hegelianers  —  that  is  to  say,  always  to  interweave  Hegel's 
philosophical  terms  in  conversation.  In  order  to  put  down 
this  practice,  a  few  clever  fellows  took  upon  themselves  the 
task  of  hammering  some  of  the  most  difficult  technical  words 
into  the  memory  of  a  humorous  and  commonly  drunken  coun- 
try innkeeper,  at  whose  house  many  a  Sexa  was  often  held  ; 
and  the  man  spoke  Hegelianic  in  his  mellow  hours,  and  the 
effect  was  so  absurd,  that  the  employment  of  philosophical 
scraps  in  his  speech  was  ridiculed,  understood,  and  the  nui- 
sance abated. 

Beautiful  songs  resound  as  we  approach  :  we  hear  Swedish, 
Norwegian,  and  Danish.  The  melody's  varied  beacon  makes 
known  to  us  where  Upsala's  students  are  assembled.  The 
song  proceeds  from  the  assembly-room  —  from  the  tavern 
saloon,  and  like  serenades  in  the  silent  evening,  when  a  young 


I  ^-6  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

friend  departs,  or  a  dear  guest  is  honored.  Glorious  melodies  ! 
ye  enthrall,  so  that  we  forget  that  the  sun  goes  down,  and  the 
moon  rises. 

"  Herre  min  Gud  hvad  din  Månen  lyser 
Se,  hvilken  Glands  ut  ofver  Land  och  Stad  !  " 

is  now  sung,  and  we  see,  — 

"  Hogt  opp  i  Slottet  hvarenda  ruta 
Blixtrar  some  vore  den  en  adelsten."  ^ 

Up  thither,  then,  is  our  way  !  Lead  us.  Memory's  sprite, 
into  the  palace,  the  courteous  governor  of  Upland's  dwelling. 
Mild  glances  greet  us  ;  we  see  dear  beings  in  a  happy  circle, 
and  all  the  leading  characters  of  Upsala.  We  again  see  him 
whose  cunning  quickened  our  perceptions  as  to  the  mysteries 
of  vegetable  life,  so  that  even  the  toad-stool  is  unveiled  to  us 
as  a  building  more  artfully  constructed  than  the  labyrinths  of 
the  olden  time.  We  see  "  The  Flowers' "  singer,  he  who 
led  us  to  "The  Island  of  Bliss;"  we  meet  with  him  whose 
popular  lays  are  borne  on  melodies  into  the  world  ;  his  wife 
by  his  side.  That  quiet,  gentle  woman  with  those  faithful 
eyes  is  the  daughter  of  Frithiofs  bard  ;  we  see  noble  men 
and  women,  ladies  of  the  high  nobility,  with  sounding  and 
significant  family  names  with  silver  and  lilies,  —  stars  and 
swords. 

Hark !  listen  to  that  lively  song.  Gunnar  Wennerberg, 
Gluntarna's  poet  and  composer,  sings  his  songs  with  Boro- 
nees,*^  and  they  acquire  a  dramatic  life  and  reality. 

How  spiritual  and  enjoyable  !  one  becomes  happy  here,  one 
feels  proud  of  the  age  one  lives  in,  happy  in  being  distant 
from  the  horrible  tragedies  that  history  speaks  of  within  these 
walls. 

We  can  hear  about  them  when  the  song  is  silent,  when  those 
friendly  forms  disappear,  and  the  festal  lights  are  extinguished  : 
from  the  pages  of  history  that  tale  resounds  with  a  clang  of 
horror.  It  was  in  those  times  which  the  many  still  call  poetic 
—  the  romantic  Middle  Ages  —  that  bards  sang  of  its  most 

1  Lord,  my  God,  how  Thy  moon  shines !     See  what  lustre  over  land 
and  city  !     High  up  in  the  palace  every  pane  glistens  as  if  it  were  a  gem. 
"^  Gluntarna  duets,  by  Gunnar  Wennerberg. 


UPS  ALA.  177 

brilliant  periods,  and  covered  with  the  radiance  of  their 
genius  the  sanguinary  gulf  of  brutality  and  superstition. 
Terror  seizes  us  in  Upsala's  palace  :  we  stand  in  the  vaulted 
hall,  the  wax-tapers  burn  from  the  walls,  and  King  Erik 
XIV.  sits  with  Saul's  dark  despondency,  with  Cain's  wild 
looks.  Niels  Sture  occupies  his  thoughts,  the  recollection 
of  injustice  exercised  against  him  lashes  his  conscience 
with  scourges  and  scorpions,  as  deadly  terrible  as  they  are 
revealed  to  us  in  the  page  of  history. 

King  Erik  XIV.  whose  gloomy  distrust  often  amounted 
to  insanity,  thought  that  the  nobility  aimed  at  his  life.  His 
favorite,  Goran  Persson,  found  it  to  his  advantage  to 
strengthen  him  in  this  belief  He  hated  most  the  popularly 
favored  race  of  the  Stures,  and  of  them,  the  light-haired  Niels 
Sture  in  particular  ;  for  Erik  thought  that  he  had  read  in  the 
stars  that  a  man  with  light  hair  should  hurl  him  from  the 
throne  ;  and  as  the  Swedish  General,  after  the  lost  battle  of 
Svarteaa,  laid  the  blame  on  Niels  Sture,  Erik  directly  believed 
it,  yet  dared  not  to  act  as  he  desired,  but  even  gave  Niels 
Sture  royal  presents.  Yet  because  he  was  again  accused  by 
one  single  person  of  having  checked  the  advance  of  the 
Swedish  army  at  Båhus,  Erik  invited  him  to  his  palace  at 
Svartsjo,  gave  him  an  honorable  place  at  his  royal  table,  and 
let  him  depart  in  apparent  good  faith  for  Stockholm,  where, 
on  his  arrival,  the  heralds  were  ordered  to  proclaim  in  the 
streets  :  "  Niels  Sture  is  a  traitor  to  his  country  !  " 

There  Goran  Persson  and  the  German  retainers  seized  him 
and  sat  him  by  force  on  the  executioner's  most  miserable 
hack  ;  struck  him  in  the  face  so  that  the  blood  streamed  down, 
placed  a  tarred  straw  crown  on  his  head,  and  fastened  a 
paper  with  derisive  words,  on  the  saddle  before  him.  They 
then  let  a  row  of  hired  beggar-boys  and  old  fishwives  go  in 
couples  before,  and  to  the  tail  of  the  horse  they  bound  two 
fir-trees,  the  roots  of  which  dragged  on  the  ground  and  swept 
the  street  after  the  traitor.  Niels  Sture  exclaimed  that  he  had 
not  deserved  this  treatment  from  his  King,  and  he  begged  the 
groom,  who  went  by  his  side,  and  had  served  him  in  the  field 
of  battle,  to  attest  the  truth  like  an  honest  man  ;  when  they 
all  shouted  aloud  that  he  suffered  innocently,  and  had  acted 


178  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

like  a  true  Swede.  But  the  procession  was  driven  forward 
through  the  streets  without  stopi^ing,  and  at  night  Niels  Sture 
was  conducted  to  prison. 

King  Erik  sits  in  his  royal  palace :  he  orders  the  torches 
and  candles  to  be  lighted,  but  they  are  of  no  avail  —  his 
thoughts'  scorpions  sting  his  soul. 

"I  have  again  liberated  Neils  Sture,"  he  mutters  j  "I  have 
had  placards  put  up  at  every  street-corner,  and  made  the  her- 
alds proclaim  that  no  one  shall  dare  to  speak  otherwise  than 
well  of  Niels  Sture  !  I  have  sent  him  on  an  honorable  mis- 
sion to  a  foreign  court,  in  order  to  sue  for  me  in  marriage  ! 
He  has  had  reparation  enough  made  to  him  ;  but  never  will 
he,  nor  his  mighty  race,  forget  the  derision  and  shame  I  have 
made  him  suffer.     They  will  all  betray  me  —  kill  me  !  " 

And  King  Erik  commands  that  all  Sture's  kindred  shall  be 
made  prisoners. 

King  Erik  sits  in  his  royal  palace ;  the  sun  shines,  but  not 
into  the  King's  heart.  Niels  Sture  enters  the  chamber  with 
an  answer  of  consent  from  the  royal  bride,  and  the  King 
shakes  him  by  the  hand,  making  fair  promises  —  and  the  fol- 
lowing evening  Niels  Sture  is  a  prisoner  in  Upsala  Palace. 

King  Erik's  gloomy  mind  is  disturbed  ;  he  has  no  rest  ;  he 
has  no  peace,  between  fear  and  distrust.  He  hurries  away  to 
Upsala  Palace  ;  he  will  make  all  straight  and  just  again  by 
marrying  Niels  Sture's  sister.  Kneeling,  he  begs  her  impris- 
oned father's  consent,  and  obtains  it ;  but  in  the  very  moment, 
the  spirit  of  distrust  is  again  upon  him,  and  he  cries  in  his  in- 
sanity, — 

"  But  you  will  not  forgive  me  the  shame  I  brought  on  Niels  !  " 

At  the  same  time,  Goran  Persson  announced  that  King 
Erik's  brother,  John,  had  escaped  from  his  prison,  and  that  a 
revolt  was  breaking  out.  And  Erik  ran,  with  a  sharp  dagger, 
into  Niels  Sture's  prison. 

"  Art  thou  there,  traitor  to  thy  country !  "  he  shouted,  and 
thrust  the  dagger  into  Sture's  arm;  and  Sture  drew  it  out 
again,  wiped  off  the  blood,  kissed  the  hilt,  and  returned  the 
weapon  to  the  King,  saying,  — 

"  Be  lenient  with  me,  Sire ;  I  have  not  deserved  your  dis- 
favor." 


UPS  ALA. 


179 


Erik  laughed  aloud. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  do  but  hear  the  villain  !  how  he  can  pray  for 
himself!" 

And  the  King's  halberdier  stuck  his  lance  through  Niels 
Sture's  eye,  and  thus  gave  him  his  death.  Sture's  blood 
cleaves  to  Upsala  Palace  —  to  King  Erik  always  and  ever- 
lastingly. No  church  masses  can  absolve  his  soul  from  that 
base  crime. 

Let  us  now  go  to  the  church. 

A  little  flight  of  stairs  in  the  side-aisle  leads  us  up  to  a 
vaulted  chamber,  where  kings'  crowns  and  sceptres,  taken 
from  the  coffins  of  the  dead,  are  deposited  in  wooden  closets. 
Here,  in  the  corner,  hangs  Niels  Sture's  blood-covered  clothes 
and  knight's  hat,  on  the  outside  of  which  a  small  silk  glove 
is  fastened.  It  was  his  betrothed  one's  dainty  glove  —  that 
which  he,  knight-like,  always  bore. 

O,  barbarous  era  !  highly  vaunted  as  you  are  in  song,  re- 
treat, like  the  storm-cloud,  and  be  poetically  beautiful  to  all 
who  do  not  see  thee  in  thy  true  light. 

We  descend  from  the  little  chamber,  from  the  gold  and  sil- 
ver of  the  dead,  and  wander  in  the  church's  aisles.  The  cold 
marble  tombs,  with  shields  of  arms  and  names,  awaken  other, 
milder  thoughts. 

The  walls  shine  brightly,  and  with  varied  hues,  in  the  great 
chapel  behind  the  high  altar.  The  fresco  paintings  present 
to  us  the  most  eventful  circumstances  of  Gustavus  Vasa's  life. 
Here  his  clay  moulders,  with  that  of  his  three  consorts.  Yon- 
der, a  work  in  marble,  by  Sargel,  solicits  our  attention:  it 
adorns  the  burial  chapel  of  the  De  Geers  ;  and  here,  in  the 
centre  aisle,  under  that  flat  stone,  rests  Linnæus.  In  the  side 
chapel  is  his  monument,  erected  by  amici  and  discipidi :  a  suffi- 
cient sum  was  quickly  raised  for  its  erection,  and  the  King, 
Gustavus  III.,  himself  brought  his  royal  gift.  The  projector 
of  the  subscription  then  explained  to  him  that  the  purposed 
inscription  was,  that  the  monument  was  erected  only  by  friends 
and  disciples,  and  King  Gustavus  answered  :  "  And  am  not  I 
also  one  of  Linnæus's  disciples  ?  " 

The  monument  was  raised,  and  a  hall  built  in  the  botanical 
garden,  under  splendid  trees.     There  stands  his  bust ;  but  the 


I  So  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN'. 

remembrance  of  himself,  his  home,  his  own  little  garden  — 
where  is  it  most  vivid  ?     Lead  us  thither. 

On  yonder  side  of  Fyri's  rivulet,  where  the  street  climbs  a 
declivity,  and  red-painted  wooden  houses  boast  their  living 
grass  roofs,  as  fresh  as  if  they  were  planted  terraces,  lies  Lin- 
næus's  garden.  We  stand  within  it.  How  solitary  !  how  over- 
grown !  Tall  nettles  shoot  up  between  the  old,  untrimmed, 
rank  hedges.  No  water-plants  appear  more  in  that  little, 
dried-up  basin ;  the  hedges  that  were  formerly  clipped,  put 
forth  fresh  leaves  without  being  checked  by  the  gardener's 
shears. 

It  was  between  these  hedges  that  Linnæus  at  times  saw  his 
own  double  —  that  optical  illusion  which  presents  the  express 
image  of  a  second  self — from  the  hat  to  the  boots. 

Where  a  great  man  has  lived  and  worked,  the  place  itself 
becomes,  as  it  were,  a  part  and  parcel  of  him  :  the  whole,  as 
well  as  a  part,  has  mirrored  itself  in  his  eye  ;  it  has  entered 
into  his  soul,  and  become  linked  with  it  and  the  whole  world. 

We  enter  the  orangeries  :  the}'^  are  now^  transformed  into 
assembly  rooms  ;  the  blooming  winter-garden  has  disappeared  ; 
but  the  walls  yet  show  a  sort  of  herbarium.  They  are  hung 
round  with  the  portraits  of  learned  Swedes  —  a  herbarium 
from  the  garden  of  science  and  knowledge.  Unknown  faces 
—  and,  to  the  stranger,  the  greatest  part  are  unknown  names  — 
meet  us  here. 

One  portrait  amongst  the  many  attracts  our  attention  :  it 
looks  singular  ;  it  is  the  half-length  figure  of  an  old  man  in  a 
shirt,  lying  in  his  bed.  It  is  that  of  the  learned  theologian, 
0dm ann,  who,  after  he  had  been  compelled  to  keep  his  bed  by 
a  fever,  found  himself  so  comfortable  in  it,  that  he  continued  to 
lie  there  during  the  remainder  of  his  long  life,  and  was  not  tc 
be  induced  to  get  up.  Even  when  the  next  house  was  burn- 
ing, they  were  obliged  to  carry  him  out  in  his  bed  into  the 
street.  Death  and  cold  were  his  two  bugbears.  The  cold 
would  kill  him,  was  his  opinion  ;  and  so,  when  the  students 
came  with  their  essays  and  treatises,  the  manuscripts  were 
warmed  at  the  stove  before  he  read  them.  The  windows  of 
his  room  were  never  opened,  so  that  there  was  a  suffocating 
and  impure  air  in  his  dwelling.     He  had  a  writing-desk  on  the 


UPS  AL  A.  1 8 1 

bed ;  books  and  manuscripts  lay  in  confusion  round  about ; 
dishes,  plates,  and  pots  stood  here  or  there,  as  the  conven- 
ience of  the  moment  dictated,  and  his  only  companion  was  a 
deaf  and  dumb  daughter. 

She  sat  still  in  a  corner  by  the  window,  wrapped  up  in  her- 
self, and  staring  before  her,  as  if  she  were  a  figure  that  had 
flown  out  of  the  frame  around  the  dark,  mouldy  canvas,  which 
had  once  shown  a  picture  on  the  wall. 

Here,  in  the  room,  in  this  impure  atmosphere,  the  old  man 
lived  happily,  and  reached  his  seventieth  year,  occupied  with 
the  translation  of  travels  in  Africa.  This  tainted  atmosphere, 
in  which  he  lay,  became,  to  his  conceit,  the  dromedary's  high 
back,  which  lifted  him  aloft  in  the  burning  sun  ;  the  long,  hang- 
ing-down cobwebs  were  the  palm-trees'  waving  banners,  and 
the  caravan  went  over  rivers  to  the  wild  bushmen.  Old  Od- 
mann  was  with  the  hunters,  chasing  the  elephants  in  the  midst 
of  the  thick  reeds  ;  the  agile  tiger-cat  sprang  past,  and  the 
serpents  shone  like  garlands  around  the  boughs  of  the  trees : 
there  was  excitement,  there  was  danger  —  and  yet  he  lay  so 
comfortably  in  his  good  and  beloved  bed  in  Upsala. 

One  winter's  day,  it  happened  that  a  Dalecarlian  peasant 
mistook  the  house,  and  came  into  Odmann's  chamber  in  his 
snow-covered  skin  cloak,  and  with  his  beard  full  of  ice.  Od- 
mann  shouted  to  him  to  go  his  way,  but  the  peasant  was  deaf, 
and  therefore  stepped  quite  close  up  to  the  bed.  He  was  the 
personification  of  Winter  himself,  and  Odmann  fell  ill  from 
this  visit :  it  was  his  only  sickness  during  the  many  years  he 
lay  here  as  a  polypus,  grown  fast,  and  where  he  was  painted, 
as  we  see  his  portrait  in  the  assembly  room. 

From  the  hall  of  learning  we  will  go  to  its  burial  place  — 
that  is  to  say,  its  open  burial  place  —  the  great  library.  We 
wander  from  hall  to  hall,  up  stairs  and  down  stairs.  Along 
the  shelves,  behind  them  and  round  about,  stand  books,  those 
petrifactions  of  the  mind,  which  might  again  be  vivified  by 
spirit.  Here  lives  a  kind-hearted  and  mild  old  man,  the  li- 
brarian, Professor  Schroder.  He  smiles  and  nods  as  he  hears 
how  Memory's  sprite  takes  his  place  here  as  guide,  and  tells 
of  and  shows,  as  we  see,  Tegnér's  copy  and  translation  of 
Oehlenschlager's  "  Hakon  Jarl  "  and  "  Palnatoke."     We  see 


I  8  2  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

Wadstena  cloister's  library,  in  thick  hog's  leather  bindings,  and 
think  of  the  fair  hands  of  the  nuns  that  have  borne  them,  —  the 
pious,  mild  eyes  that  conjured  the  spirit  out  of  the  dead  letters. 
Here  is  the  celebrated  Codex  Argenteus,  the  translation  of 
the  "  Four  Evangelists."  ^  Gold  and  silver  letters  glisten  from 
the  red  parchment  leaves.  We  see  ancient  Icelandic  manu- 
scripts, from  De  la  Gardie's  refined  French  saloon,  and  Thun- 
berg's  Japanese  manuscripts.  By  merely  looking  at  these 
books,  their  bindings  and  names,  one  at  last  becomes,  as  it 
were,  quite  worm-eaten  in  spirit,  and  longs  to  be  out  in  the 
free  air  —  and  we  are  there,  by  Upsala's  ancient  hills.  Thither 
do  thou  lead  us,  Remembrance's  elf,  out  of  the  city,  out  on 
the  far  extended  plain,  where  Denmark's  church  stands  —  the 
church  that  was  erected  from  the  booty  which  the  Swedes 
gained  in  the  war  against  the  Danes.  We  follow  the  broad 
high-road  ;  it  leads  us  close  past  Upsala's  old  hills  —  Odin's, 
Thor's,  and  Freia's  graves,  as  they  are  called. 

There  once  stood  ancient  Upsala ;  here  now  are  but  a  few 
peasants'  farms.  The  low  church,  built  of  granite  blocks, 
dates  from  a  very  remote  age  ;  it  stands  on  the  remains  of 
a  heathen  temple.  Each  of  the  hills  is  a  little  mountain,  yet 
each  was  raised  by  human  hands.  Letters  an  ell  long,  and 
whole  names,  are  cut  deep  in  the  thin  greensward,  which  the 
new  sprouting  grass  gradually  fills  up.  The  old  housewife,  from 
the  peasant's  cot  close  by  the  hill,  brings  the  silver-bound  horn, 
a  gift  of  Charles  John  XIV.,  filled  with  mead.  The  wanderer 
empties  the  horn  to  the  memory  of  the  olden  time,  for  Sweden, 
and  for  the  heart's  constant  thoughts  —  young  love  ! 

Yes,  thy  toast  is  drunk  here,  and  many  a  beauteous  rose  has 
been  remembered  herewith  a  heartfelt  hurra  ;  and  years  after, 
when  the  same  wanderer  again  stood  here,  she,  the  blooming 
rose,  had  been  laid  in  the  earth  ;  the  spring  roses  had  strewn 
their  leaves  over  her  coffined  clay  ;  the  sweet  music  of  her  lips 
sounded  but  in  memory  ;  the  smile  in  her  eyes  and  around  he. 
mouth  was  gone,  like  the  sunbeams  which  then  shone  on  Up- 
sala's hills.  Her  name  in  the  greensward  is  grown  over  ;  she 
herself  is  in  the  earth,  and  it  is  closed  above  her ;  but  the  hil 
here,  closed  for  a  thousand  years,  is  open. 

1  A  Gothic  translation  of  the  Four  Evangelists,  and  ascribed  to  tb 
Mcesogothic  Archbishop  Ulphilas. 


UPS  AL  A.  183 

Through  the  passage  which  is  dug  deep  into  the  hills,  we 
come  to  the  funereal  urns  which  contain  the  bones  of  youthful 
kindred  ;  the  dust  of  kings,  the  gods  of  the  earth. 

The  old  housewife,  from  the  peasant's  cot,  has  lighted  half  a 
hundred  wax-candles  and  placed  them  in  rows  in  the  other- 
wise pitchy-dark,  stone-paved  passage.  It  shines  so  festally 
in  here  over  the  bones  of  the  olden  time's  mighty  ones, —  bones 
that  are  now  charred  and  burnt  to  ashes.  And  whose  were 
they  ?  Thou  world's  power  and  glory,  thou  world's  posthu- 
mous fame  —  dust,  dust  like  beauty's  rose,  laid  in  the  dark 
earth,  where  no  light  shines  ;  thy  memorials  are  but  a  name, 
the  name  but  a  sound.  Away  hence,  and  up  on  the  hill  where 
the  wind  blows,  the  sun  shines,  and  the  eye  looks  over  the 
green  plain,  to  the  sunlit,  dear  Upsala,  the  students'  city. 


XV. 

SALA, 

SWEDEN'S  great  King,  Germany's  preserver,  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  founded  Sala.  The  little  forest  close  by  still 
preserves  legends  of  the  heroic  King's  youthful  love  —  of  his 
meeting  here  with  Ebba  Brahe. 

Sala's  silver  mines  are  the  largest,  the  deepest,  and  oldest 
in  Sweden :  they  reach  to  the  depth  of  one  hundred  and 
seventy  fathoms,  consequently  they  are  almost  as  deep  as  the 
Baltic.  This  of  itself  is  enough  to  awaken  an  interest  for  a 
little  town  ;  but  what  is  its  appearance  ?  "  Sala,"  says  the 
guide-book,  "  lies  in  a  valley,  in  a  flat,  and  not  very  pleasant 
district."  And  so  truly  it  is :  it  was  not  very  attractive  ap- 
proaching it  our  way,  and  the  high-road  led  directly  into  the 
town,  which  is  without  any  distinctive  character.  It  consists 
of  a  long  street,  with  what  we  may  term  a  nucleus  and  a  few 
fibres.  The  nucleus  is  the  market-place,  and  the  fibres  are 
the  few  lanes  diverging  from  it.  The  long  street  —  that  is  to 
say,  long  in  a  little  town  —  is  quite  without  passengers  ;  no 
one  comes  out  from  the  doors,  no  one  is  to  be  seen  at  the 
windows. 

It  was  therefore  with  pleased  surprise  that  I  at  length  de- 
scried a  human  being  ;  it  was  at  an  ironmonger's,  where  there 
hung  a  paper  of  pins,  a  handkerchief,  and  two  tea-pots  in  the 
window.  There  I  saw  a  solitary  shop-bo}^,  standing  quite  still, 
but  leaning  over  the  counter  and  looking  out  of  the  open  door. 
He  certainly  wrote  in  his  journal,  if  he  had  one,  in  the 
evening :  "  To-day  a  traveller  drove  through  the  town  :  who 
he  was,  God  knows,  for  I  don't !  "  —  yes,  that  was  what  the 
shop-boy's  face  said,  and  an  honest  face  it  was. 

In  the  inn  at  which  I  arrived,  there  was  the  same  grave- 
like stillness  as  in  the  street.     The  gate  was  certainly  closed, 


SALA.  185 

but  all  the  inner  doors  were  wide  open ;  the  farm-yard  cock 
stood  on  tiptoe  in  the  middle  of  the  travellers'  room  and 
crowed,  in  order  to  show  that  there  was  somebody  at  home. 
The  house,  however,  was  quite  picturesque  :  it  had  an  open 
balcony,  from  which  one  might  look  out  upon  the  yard,  for  it 
would  have  been  far  too  lively  had  it  been  facing  the  street. 
There  hung  the  old  sign  and  creaked  in  the  wind,  as  if  to  show 
that  it  at  least  was  alive.  I  saw  it  from  my  window  ;  I  saw 
also  how  the  grass  in  the  street  had  got  the  mastery  over  the 
pavement.  The  sun  shone  brightly,  but  shone  as  into  a  bach- 
elor's solitary  room,  and  on  the  old  maid's  balsams  in  the  flow- 
er-pots. It  was  as  still  as  a  Scotch  Sunday  —  and  yet  it  was  a 
Tuesday.     One  was  disposed  for  Young's  "  Night  Thoughts." 

I  looked  out  from  the  balcony  into  the  neighboring  yard ; 
there  was  not  a  soul  to  be  seen,  but  children  had  been  play- 
ing there.  There  was  a  little  garden  made  of  dry  sticks  ; 
they  were  stuck  down  in  the  soft  soil,  and  had  been  watered  ; 
a  broken  pan,  which  had  certainly  served  by  way  of  water- 
ing pot,  lay  there  still.  The  sticks  signified  roses  and  gera- 
niums. 

It  had  been  a  delightful  garden  —  alas,  yes!  We  great, 
grown-up  men  —  we  play  just  so  :  we  make  ourselves  a  gar- 
den with  what  we  call  love's  roses  and  friendship's  geraniums  ; 
we  water  them  with  our  tears  and  with  our  heart's  blood  ;  and 
yet  they  are,  and  remain,  dry  sticks  without  root.  It  was  a 
gloomy  thought ;  I  felt  it,  and  in  order  to  get  the  dry  sticks 
in  my  thoughts  to  blossom,  I  went  out.  I  wandered  in  the 
fibres  and  in  the  long  threads  —  that  is  to  say,  in  the  small 
lanes  —  and  in  the  great  street ;  and  here  was  more  life  than 
I  dared  to  expect.  I  met  a  herd  of  cattle  returning  or  going 
—  which  I  knew  not  —  for  they  were  without  a  herdsman. 
The  shop-boy  stood  still  behind  the  counter,  leaned  over  it, 
and  greeted  me  ;  the  stranger  took  off  his  hat  in  return  — 
that  was  my  day's  employment  in  Sala. 

Pardon  me,  thou  silent  town,  which  Gustavus  Adolphus 
built,  where  his  young  heart  felt  the  first  emotions  of  love, 
and  where  the  silver  lies  in  the  deep  shafts  —  that  is  to  say, 
outside  the  town,  "  in  a  flat,  and  not  very  pleasant  district." 

I  knew  no  one  in  the  town  ;  I  had  no  one  to  be  my  guide, 


lS6  PICILTRES  OF  SWEDEA^ 

SO  I  accompanied  the  cows,  and  came  to  the  church-yard.  The 
cows  went  past,  but  I  stepped  over  the  stile,  and  stood 
amongst  the  graves,  where  the  grass  grew  high,  and  almost  all 
the  tombstones  lay  with  worn-out  inscriptions.  On  a  few  only 
the  date  of  the  year  was  legible.  "  Anno"  —  yes,  what  then  ? 
And  who  rested  here  ?  Everything  on  the  stone  was  erased 
—  blotted  out  like  the  earthly  life  of  those  mortals  that  here 
were  earth  in  earth.  What  life's  dream  have  ye  dead  played 
here  in  silent  Sala? 

The  setting  sun  shone  over  the  graves ;  not  a  leaf  moved 
on  the  trees  ;  all  was  still  —  still  as  death  —  in  the  city  of  the 
silver-mines,  of  which  this  traveller's  reminiscence  is  but  a 
frame  around  the  shop-boy  who  leaned  over  the  counter. 


XVI. 

THE    MUTE    BOOK. 

BY  the  high-road  into  the  forest  there  stood  a  solitary 
farm-house.  Our  way  lay  right  through  the  farm-yard  ; 
the  sun  shone  ;  all  the  windows  were  open  ;  there  was  life  and 
bustle  within,  but  in  the  yard,  in  an  arbor  of  flowering  lilacs, 
there  stood  an  open  coffin.  The  corpse  had  been  placed  out 
•here,  and  it  was  to  be  buried  that  forenoon.  No  one  stood 
by  and  wept  over  that  dead  man ;  no  one  hung  sorrowfully 
over  him  ;  his  face  was  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  and  under 
his  head  there  lay  a  large  thick  book,  every  leaf  of  which  was 
a  whole  sheet  of  gray  paper,  and  between  each  lay  withered 
flowers,  deposited  and  forgotten — a  whole  herbarium,  gath- 
ered in  different  places.  He  himself  had  requested  that  it 
should  be  laid  in  the  grave  with  him.  A  chapter  of  his  life 
was  blended  with  every  flower. 

"  Who  is  that  dead  man  ?  "  we  asked,  and  the  answer  was : 
"The  old  student  from  Upsala.  They  say  he  was  once  very 
clever ;  he  knew  the  learned  languages,  could  sing  and  write 
verses  too ;  but  then  there  was  something  that  went  wrong, 
and  so  he  gave  both  his  thoughts  and  himself  up  to  drinking 
spirits,  and  as  his  health  suffered  by  it,  he  came  out  here  into 
the  country,  where  they  paid  for  his  board  and  lodging. 

"  He  was  as  gentle  as  a  child,  when  the  dark  humor  did 
not  come  over  him,  for  then  he  was  strong,  and  ran  about  in 
the  forest  like  a  hunted  deer  ;  but  when  we  got  him  home,  we 
persuaded  him  to  look  into  the  book  with  the  dry  plants. 
Then  he  would  sit  the  whole  day  and  look  at  one  plant,  and 
then  at  another,  and  many  a  time  the  tears  ran  clown  his 
cheeks.  God  knows  what  he  then  thought !  But  he  begged 
that  he  might  have  the  book  with  him  in  his  cofiEin ;  and  now 
it  lies  there,  and  the  lid  will  soon  be  fastened  down,  and  then 
he  will  take  his  peaceful  rest  in  the  grave  !  " 


I  SS  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

They  raised  the  winding-sheet.  There  was  peace  in  the 
face  of  the  dead  :  a  sunbeam  fell  on  it ;  a  swallow  in  its 
arrowy  flight,  darted  into  the  new-made  arbor,  and  in  its  flight 
circled  twittering  over  the  dead  man's  head. 

How  strange  it  is  !  —  we  all  assuredly  know  it  —  to  take 
out  old  letters  from  the  days  of  our  youth  and  read  them  : 
a  whole  life,  as  it  were,  then  rises  up  with  all  its  hopes,  and  all 
its  troubles.  How  many  of  those  with  whom  we,  in  their 
time,  lived  so  devotedly,  are  now  even  as  the  dead  to  us,  and 
yet  they  still  live !  But  we  have  not  thought  of  them  for 
many  years  —  those  whom  we  once  thought  we  should  always 
cling  to,  and  share  our  mutual  joys  and  sorrows  with. 

The  withered  oak  leaf  in  the  book  here  is  a  memorial  of 
the  friend  —  the  friend  of  his  school-days  —  the  friend  for 
life.  He  fixed  this  leaf  on  the  student's  cap  in  the  green 
wood,  when  the  vow  of  friendship  was  concluded  for  the  whole 
of  life.  Where  does  he  now  live  ?  The  leaf  is  preserved  ; 
friendship  forgotten.  Here  is  a  foreign  conservatory-plant, 
too  fine  for  the  gardens  of  the  North  —  it  looks  as  if  there 
still  were  fragance  in  these  leaves  !  —  she  gave  it  to  him  — 
she,  the  young  lady  of  that  noble  garden. 

Here  is  the  marsh-lotus  which  he  himself  has  plucked 
and  watered  with  salt  tears  —  the  marsh-lotus  from  the  fresh 
waters.  And  here  is  a  nettle  :  what  does  its  leaf  say  ? 
What  did  he  think  on  plucking  it  — on  preserving  it?  Here 
are  lilies  of  the  valley  from  the  woodland  solitudes  ;  here  are 
honeysuckle  leaves  from  the  village  ale-house  flower-pot ;  and 
here  the  bare,  sharp  blade  of  grass. 

The  flowering  lilac  bends  its  fresh,  fragrant  clusters  over 
the  dead  man's  head  ;  the  swallow  again  flies  past :  "  Quivit ! 
quivit !  "  Now  the  men  come  with  nails  and  hammer  ;  the 
lid  is  placed  over  the  corpse,  whose  head  rests  on  the  Mute 
Book  —  preserved  —  forgotten  ! 


XVII. 

THE    SATHER    DALE. 

EVERYTHING  was  in  order,  the  carriage  examined,  even 
a  whip  with  a  good  lash  was  not  forgotten.  "Two 
whips  would  be  best,"  said  the  ironmonger,  who  sold  it,  and 
the  ironmonger  was  a  man  of  experience,  which  travellers 
often  are  not.  A  whole  bag  full  of  "  slanter  "  —  that  is,  cop- 
per coins  of  small  value  —  stood  before  us  for  bridge-money, 
for  beggars,  for  shepherds'  boys,  or  whoever  might  open  the 
many  field-gates  for  us  that  obstructed  our  progress.  But  we 
had  to  do  this  ourselves,  for  the  rain  pattered  down  and  lashed 
the  ground ;  no  one  had  any  desire  to  come  out  in  such 
weather.  The  rushes  in  the  marsh  bent  and  waved  ;  it  was 
a  real  rain  feast  for  them,  and  it  whistled  from  the  tops  of  the 
rushes :  "  We  drink  with  our  feet,  we  drink  with  our  heads, 
we  drink  with  the  whole  body,  and  yet  we  stand  on  one  leg ; 
hurra !  We  drink  with  the  bending  willow,  with  the  dripping 
flowers  on  the  bank  ;  their  cups  run  over  —  the  marsh-mari- 
gold, that  fine  lady,  can  bear  it  better  !  Hurra  !  it  is  a  feast ! 
it  pours,  it  pours  ;  we  whistle  and  we  sing ;  it  is  our  own 
song.  To-morrow  the  fiogs  will  croak  the  same  after  us  and 
say,  "  It  is  quite  new  !  " 

And  the  rushes  waved,  and  the  rain  pattered  down  with  a 
splashing  noise  —  it  was  fine  weather  to  travel  in  to  Såther 
Dale,  and  to  see  its  far-famed  beauties.  The  whip-lash  now 
came  off  the  whip;  it  was  fastened  on  again,  and  again,  and 
every  time  it  was  shorter,  so  that  at  last  there  was  not  a  lash, 
nor  was  there  any  handle,  for  the  handle  went  after  the  lash  — 
or  sailed  after  it  —  as  the  road  was  quite  navigable,  and  gave 
one  a  vivid  idea  of  the  beginning  of  the  Deluge. 

One  poor  jade  now  drew  too  much,  the  other  drew  too  lit- 
tle, and  one  of  the  splinter  bars  broke  ;  well,  by  all  that  is 


IQO 


PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 


vexatious,  that  was  a  fine  drive !  The  leather  apron  in  front 
had  a  deep  pond  in  its  folds  with  an  outlet  into  one's  lap. 
Now  one  of  the  linch-pins  came  out ;  now  the  twisting  of  the 
rope  harness  became  loose,  and  the  cross-strap  was  tired  of 
holding  any  longer.  Glorious  inn  in  Såther,  how  I  long  more 
for  thee  than  thy  far-famed  dale.  And  the  horses  went  slower, 
and  the  rain  fell  faster,  and  so  —  yes,  so  we  were  not  j-et  in 
Såther. 

Patience,  thou  lank  spider,  that  in  the  antechamber  quietly 
dost  spin  thy  web  over  the  expectant's  foot,  spin  my  eyelids 
close  in  a  sleep  as  still  as  the  horse's  pace  !  Patience  ?  no,  she 
was  not  with  us  in  the  carriage  to  Såther.  But  to  the  inn,  by 
the  road-side,  close  to  the  far-famed  valley,  I  got  at  length, 
toward  evening. 

And  everything  was  flowing  in  the  yard,  chaotically  min- 
gled ;  manure  and  farming  implements,  staves  and  straw.  The 
poultry  sat  there  washed  to  shadows,  or  at  least  like  stuck-up 
hens'  skins  with  feathers  on,  and  even  the  ducks  crept  close 
up  to  the  wet  wall  sated  with  the  wet.  The  stable-man  was 
cross,  the  girl  still  more  so  ;  it  was  difficult  to  get  them  to  be- 
stir themselves :  the  steps  were  crooked,  the  floor  sloping  and 
but  just  washed,  sand  strewn  thickly  on  it,  and  the  air  was 
damp  and  cold.  But  without,  scarcely  twenty  paces  from  the 
inn,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  lay  the  celebrated  valley, 
a  garden  made  by  Nature  herself,  and  whose  charm  consists 
of  trees  and  bushes,  wells  and  purling  brooks. 

It  was  a  long  hollow ;  I  saw  the  tops  of  the  trees  looming 
up,  and  the  rain  drew  its  thick  veil  over  it.  The  whole  of  that 
long  evening  did  I  sit  and  look  upon  it  during  that  shower  of 
showers.  It  was  as  if  the  Wenern,  the  Wettern,  and  a  few 
more  lakes  ran  through  an  immense  sieve  from  the  clouds.  I 
had  ordered  something  to  eat  and  drink,  but  I  got  nothing. 
They  ran  up  and  they  ran  down  ;  there  was  a  hissing  sound 
of  roasting  by  the  hearth ;  the  girls  chattered,  the  men  drank 
"  sup  ; "  -^  strangers  came,  were  shown  to  their  rooms,  and  got 
both  roast  and  boiled.  Several  hours  had  passed,  when  I 
made  a  forcible  appeal  to  the  girl,  and  she  answered  phleg- 
matically:  "Why,  sir,  you  sit  there  and  write  without  stop- 
ping, so  you  cannot  have  time  to  eat." 

^  Swedish,«//;    Danish,  siiafs;    German,  schnajs :    English,  drams. 


THE  SÅTHER  DALE. 


191 


It  was  a  long  evening,  "  but  the  evening  passed  !  "  It  had 
become  quite  still  in  the  inn ;  all  the  travellers,  except  myself, 
had  again  departed,  certainly  in  order  to  find  better  quarters 
for  the  night  at  Hedemora  or  Brunback.  I  had  seen,  through 
the  half  open  door  into  the  dirty  tap-room,  a  couple  of  fellows 
playing  with  greasy  cards ;  a  huge  dog  lay  under  the  table 
and  glared  with  its  large  red  eyes  ;  the  kitchen  was  deserted  ; 
the  rooms  too  \  the  floor  was  wet,  the  storm  rattled,  the  rain 
beat  against  the  windows  —  "  and  now  to  bed !  "  said  I. 

I  slept  an  hour,  perhaps  two,  and  was  awakened  by  a  loud 
calling  from  the  high-road.  I  started  up :  it  was  twilight,  — 
the  night  at  that  period  is  not  darker,  —  it  was  about  one 
o'clock.  I  heard  the  door  shaken  roughly ;  a  deep  manly 
voice  shouted  aloud,  and  there  was  a  hammering  with  a  cud- 
gel against  the  planks  of  the  yard-gate.  Was  it  an  intoxicated 
or  a  mad  man  that  was  to  be  let  in?  The  door  was  now 
opened,  but  many  words  were  not  exchanged.  I  heard  a 
woman  scream  at  the  top  of  her  voice  from  terror.  There  was 
now  a  great  bustling  about ;  they  ran  across  the  yard  in  wooden 
shoes  j  the  bellowing  of  cattle  and  the  rough  voices  of  men 
were  mingled  together.  I  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Out 
or  in  !  what  was  to  be  done  ?  I  looked  from  the  window  ;  in 
the  road  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen,  and  it  still  rained.  All 
at  once  some  one  came  up  stairs  with  heavy  footsteps  :  he 
opened  the  door  of  the  room  adjoining  mine  —  now  he  stood 
still  !  I  listened  —  a  large  iron  bolt  fastened  my  door.  The 
stranger  now  walked  across  the  floor,  now  he  shook  my  door, 
and  then  kicked  against  it  with  a  heavy  foot,  and  whilst  all  this 
was  passing,  the  rain  beat  against  the  windows,  and  the  blast 
made  them  rattle. 

"  Are  there  any  travellers  here  ?  "  shouted  a  voice  ;  "  the 
house  is  on  fire  !  " 

I  now  dressed  myself  and  hastened  out  of  the  room  and 
down  the  stairs.  There  was  no  smoke  to  be  seen,  but  when 
I  reached  the  yard,  I  saw  that  the  whole  building  —  a  long 
and  extensive  one  of  wood  —  was  enveloped  in  flames  and 
clouds  of  smoke.  The  fire  had  originated  in  the  baking  oven, 
which  no  one  had  looked  to ;  a  traveller,  who  accidentally 
came  past,  saw  it,  called  out,  and  hammered  at  the  door  :  and 


192 


PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 


the  women  screamed,  and  the  cattle  bellowed,  when  the  fire 
stuck  its  red  tongue  into  them. 

Now  came  the  fire-engine  and  the  flames  were  extinguished. 
By  this  time  it  was  morning.  I  stood  in  the  road,  scarcely  a 
hundred  steps  firom  the  far-famed  dale.  "  One  may  as  well 
spring  into  it  as  walk  into  it ! "  and  I  sprang  into  it  ;  and  the 
rain  poured  down,  and  the  water  flowed  —  the  whole  dale  was 
a  well. 

The  trees  turned  their  leaves  the  wrong  side  out,  purely  be- 
cause of  the  pouring  rain,  and  they  said,  as  the  rushes  did  the 
day  before  :  "We  drink  with  our  heads,  we  drink  with  our  feet, 
and  we  drink  with  the  whole  body,  and  yet  stand  on  our  legs : 
hurra !  it  rains,  and  it  pours  ;  we  whistle  and  we  sing  ;  it  is 
our  own  song  —  and  it  is  quite  new  !  " 

Yes,  that  the  rushes  also  sang  yesterday  —  but  it  was  the 
same,  ever  the  same.  I  looked  and  looked,  and  all  I  know  of 
the  beauty  of  Såther  Dale  is,  that  she  had  washed  herself! 


XVIII. 

THE  MIDSUMMER    FESTIVAL  IN    LEKSAND. 

LEKSAND  lay  on  the  other  side  of  the  dale-elv,  which 
the  road  now  led  us  over  for  the  third  or  fourth  time. 
The  picturesque  bell-tower  of  red  painted  beams,  erected  at  a 
distance  from  the  church,  rose  above  the  tall  trees  on  the 
clayey  declivity  :  old  willows  hung  gracefully  over  the  rapid 
stream.  The  floating  bridge  rocked  under  us  —  nay,  it  even 
sank  a  little,  so  that  the  water  splashed  under  the  horses'  hoofs  ; 
but  these  bridges  have  such  qualities !  The  iron  chains  that 
held  it  rattled,  the  planks  creaked,  the  boards  splashed,  the 
water  rose  and  murmured  and  roared,  and  so  we  got  over 
where  the  road  slants  upward  toward  the  town.  Close  oppo- 
site here  the  last  year's  May-pole  still  stood  with  withered 
flowers.  How  many  of  the  hands  that  bound  these  flowers 
are  now  withered  in  the  grave  } 

It  is  far  prettier  to  go  up  on  the  sloping  bank  along  the  elv, 
than  to  follow  the  straight  high-road  into  the  town.  The  path 
leads  us,  between  pasture  fields  and  leaf  trees,  up  to  the  par- 
sonage, where  we  passed  the  evening  with  the  friendly  family. 
The  clergyman  himself  was  but  lately  dead,  and  his  relatives 
were  all  in  mourning.  There  was  something  about  the  young 
daughter  —  I  knew  not  myself  what  it  was  —  but  I  was  led 
to  think  of  the  delicate  flax-flower,  too  delicate  for  the  short 
northern  summer. 

They  spoke  about  the  Midsummer  Festival  the  next  day,  and 
of  the  winter  season  here,  when  the  swans,  often  more  than 
thirty  at  a  time,  sit  (motionless  themselves)  on  the  elv,  and 
utter  strange,  mournful  tones.  They  always  come  in  pairs,  they 
said,  two  and  two,  and  thus  they  also  fly  away  again.  If  one 
of  them  dies,  its  partner  always  remains  a  long  time  after  all 
13 


194 


PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 


the  others  are  gone  ;  lingers,  laments,  and  then  flies  away 
alone  and  solitar3^ 

When  I  left  the  parsonage  in  the  evening,  the  moon,  in  its 
first  quarter,  was  up.  The  May -pole  was  raised  ;  the  little 
steamer  Prince  August,  with  several  small  vessels  in  tow,  came 
over  the  Siljan  Lake  and  into  the  elv  ;  a  musician  sprang  on 
shore,  and  began  to  play  dances  under  the  tall  wreathed  May- 
pole. And  there  was  soon  a  merr}'  circle  around  it  —  all  so 
happy,  as  if  the  whole  of  life  were  but  a  delightful  summer 
night. 

Next  morning  was  the  Midsummer  Festival.  It  was  Sun- 
day, the  24th  of  June,  and  a  beautiful  sunshiny  day  it  was. 
The  most  picturesque  sight  at  the  festival  is  to  see  the  people 
from  the  different  parishes  coming  in  crowds,  in  large  boats 
over  Siljan's  lake,  and  landing  on  its  shores.  We  drove  out 
to  the  landing-place,  Barkedale,  and  before  we  got  out  of  the 
town,  we  met  whole  troops  coming  from  there,  as  well  as  from 
the  mountains. 

Close  by  the  town  of  Leksand  there  is  a  row  of  low  wooden 
shops  on  both  sides  of  the  way,  which  only  get  their  interior 
light  through  the  doorway.  They  form  a  whole  street,  and 
serve  as  stables  for  the  parishioners,  but  also  —  and  it  was 
particularly  the  case  that  morning — to  go  into  and  arrange 
their  finery.  Almost  all  the  shops  or  sheds  were  iilled  with 
peasant  women,  who  were  anxiously  busy  about  their  dresses, 
careful  to  get  them  into  the  right  folds,  and  in  the  mean  time 
peeped  continually  out  of  the  door  to  see  who  came  past. 
The  number  of  arriving  church-goers  increased  ;  men,  women, 
and  children,  old  and  young,  even  infants  ;  for  at  the  Mid- 
summer Festival  no  one  stays  at  home  to  take  care  of  them, 
and  so  of  course  they  must  come  too  —  all  must  go  to  church. 

What  a  dazzling  array  of  colors  !  Fiery  red  and  grass  green 
aprons  meet  our  gaze.  The  dress  of  the  women  is  a  black 
skirt,  red  bodice,  and  white  sleeves :  all  of  them  had  a  psalm- 
book  wrapped  in  the  folded  silk  pocket  handkerchief  The 
little  girls  were  entirely  in  yellow,  and  with  red  aprons  ;  the 
very  least  were  in  Turkish-yellow  clothes.  The  men  were 
dressed  in  black  coats,  like  our  paletots,  embroidered  with  red 
woolen  cord  ;  a  red  band  with  a  tassel  hung  down  from  the 


THE  MIDSUMMER  FESTIVAL  IN  LEKSAND.      195 

large  black  hat ;  with  dark  knee-breeches,  and  blue  stockings, 
with  red  leather  gaiters  —  in,  short,  there  was  a  dazzling  rich- 
ness of  color,  and  that,  too,  on  a  bright  sunny  morning  in  the 
forest  road. 

This  road  led  down  a  steep  to  the  lake,  which  was  smooth 
and  blue.  Twelve  or  fourteen  long  boats,  in  form  like  gondo- 
las, were  already  drawn  up  on  the  flat  strand,  which  here  is 
covered  with  large  stones.  These  stones  served  the  persons 
who  landed,  as  bridges  ;  the  boats  were  laid  alongside  them, 
and  the  people  clambered  up,  and  went  and  bore  each  other 
on  land.  There  certainly  were  at  least  a  thousand  persons 
on  the  strand  ;  and  far  out  on  the  lake,  one  could  see  ten 
or  twelve  boats  more  coming,  some  with  sixteen  oars,  others 
with  twenty  nay,  even  with  four-and-tvventy,  rowed  by  men  and 
women,  and  every  boat  decked  out  with  green  branches.  These 
and  the  varied  clothes  gave  to  the  whole  an  appearance  of  some- 
thing so  festal,  so  fantastically  rich,  as  one  would  hardly  think 
the  North  possessed.  The  boats  came  nearer,  all  crammed 
full  of  living  freight ;  but  they  came  silently,  without  noise  or 
talking,  and  rowed  up  to  the  steep  forest  side. 

The  boats  were  drawn  up  on  the  sand :  it  was  a  fine  subject 
for  a  painter,  particularly  one  point  —  the  way  up  the  slope, 
where  the  whole  mass  moved  on  between  the  trees  and 
bushes.  The  most  prominent  figures  there  were  two  ragged 
urchins,  clothed  entirely  in  bright  yellow,  each  with  a  skin 
bundle  on  his  shoulders.  They  were  from  Gagne,  the  poorest 
parish  in  Dalecarlia.  There  was  also  a  lame  man  with  his 
blind  wife  ;  I  thought  of  the  fable  of  my  childhood,  of  the  lame 
and  the  blind  man  :  the  lame  man  lent  his  eyes,  and  the  blind 
his  legs,  and  so  they  reached  the  town. 

And  we  also  reached  the  town  and  the  church,  and  thither 
they  all  thronged  :  they  said  there  were  above  five  thousand 
persons  assembled  there.  The  church-service  began  at  five 
o'clock.  The  pulpit  and  organ  were  ornamented  with  flower- 
ing lilacs  ;  children  sat  with  lilac-flowers  and  branches  of  birch  ; 
the  little  ones  had  each  a  piece  of  oat-cake,  which  they  enjoyed. 
There  was  the  sacrament  for  the  young  persons  who  had  been 
confirmed  ;  there  was  organ-playing  and  psalm-singing  ;  but 
there  was  a  terrible  screaming  of  children,  and  the  sound  of 


I  96  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

heavy  footsteps  ;  the  clumsy,  iron-shod  Dal  shoes  tramped 
loudly  upon  the  stone  floor.  All  the  church  pews,  the  gallery 
pews,  and  the  centre  aisle  were  quite  filled  with  people.  In  the 
side-aisle  one  saw  various  groups  —  playing  children  and  pious 
old  folks  3  by  the  sacristy  there  sat  a  young  mother  giving  suck 
to  her  child  —  she  was  a  living  image  of  the  Madonna  herself. 
The  first  impression  of  the  whole  was  striking,  but  only 
the  first  — •  there  was  too  much  disturbance.  The  screaming 
of  children,  and  the  noise  of  persons  walking  were  heard 
above  the  singing,  and,  besides  that,  there  was  an  insupport- 
able smell  of  garlic  ;  almost  all  the  congregation  had  small 
bunches  of  garlic  with  them,  of  which  they  ate  as  they  sat.  I 
could  not  bear  it,  and  went  out  into  the  church-yard  :  here  — 
as  it  always  is  in  nature  —  it  was  affecting,  it  was  holy.  The 
church  door  stood  open  ;  the  tones  of  the  organ  and  the 
voices  of  the  psalm-singers  were  wafted  out  here  in  the  bright 
sunlight,  by  the  open  lake  :  the  many  who  could  not  find  a 
place  in  the  church  stood  outside,  and  sang  with  the  congre- 
gation from  the  psalm-book  :  round  about  on  the  monuments, 
which  are  almost  all  of  cast-iron,  there  sat  mothers  suckling 
their  infants  —  the  fountain  of  life  flowed  over  death  and  the 
grave.     A  young  peasant  stood  and  read  the  inscription  on  a 

grave  :  — 

"  Ach  hur  sodt  att  hafve  lefvet, 
Ach  hur  skjont  att  kunne  doe  !  "  ^ 

Beautiful  Christian,  scriptural  language,  verses  certainly 
taken  from  the  psalm-book,  were  read  on  the  grave-stones  ; 
they  were  all  read,  for  the  service  lasted  several  hours.  This, 
however,  by  the  bye,  can  never  be  good  for  devotion. 

The  crowd  at  length  streamed  from  the  church  ;  the  fiery- 
red  and  grass-green  aprons  glittered  ;  but  the  mass  of  human 
beings  became  thicker  and  closer,  and  pressed  forward.  The 
white  head-dresses,  the  white  band  over  the  forehead,  and  the 
white  sleeves,  were  the  prevailing  colors  —  it  looked  like  a 
long  procession  in  Catholic  countries.  There  was  again  life 
and  motion  on  the  road  ;  the  over-filled  boats  again  rowed 
away  ;  one  wagon  drove  off  after  the  other  ;  but  yet  there 
were  people  left  behind.  Married  and  unmarried  men  stood 
^  "  How  sweet  to  have  lived  —  how  beautiful  that  one  can  die  !  " 


THE  MIDSUMMER  FESTIVAL  IN  LEKSAND.      1 97 

in  groups  in  the  broad  street  of  Leksand,  from  the  church 
up  to  the  inn.  I  was  staying  there,  and  I  must  acknowledge 
that  my  Danish  tongue  sounded  quite  foreign  to  them  all.  I 
then  tried  the  Swedish,  and  the  girl  at  the  inn  assured  me 
that  she  understood  me  better  than  she  had  understood  the 
Frenchman  who  the  year  before  had  spoken  French  to  her. 

As  I  sit  in  my  room,  my  hostess's  granddaughter,  a  nice 
little  child,  comes  in,  and  is  pleased  to  see  my  parti-colored 
carpet-bag,  my  Scotch  plaid,  and  the  red  leather  lining  of  the 
portmanteau.  I  directly  cut  out  for  her,  from  a  sheet  of 
white  paper,  a  Turkish  mosque,  with  minarets  and  open  win- 
dows, and  away  she  runs  with  it  —  so  happy,  so  happy  ! 

Shortly  after,  I  heard  much  loud  talking  in  the  yard,  and 
I  had  a  presentiment  that  it  was  concerning  what  I  had  cut 
out ;  I  therefore  stepped  softly  out  into  the  balcony,  and  saw 
the  grandmother  standing  below,  and  with  beaming  face,  hold- 
ing my  clipped-out  paper  at  arm's  length.  A  whole  crowd  of 
Dalecarlians,  men  and  women,  stood  around,  all  in  artistic 
ecstasy  over  my  work  ;  but  the  little  girl  —  the  sweet  little 
child — screamed,  and  stretched  out  her  hands  after  her  law- 
ful property,  which  she  was  not  permitted  to  keep,  as  it  was 
too  fine. 

I  came  in  again  quietly,  yet,  of  course,  highly  flattered  and 
cheered  ;  but  a  moment  after  there  was  a  knocking  at  my 
door ;  it  was  the  grandmother,  my  hostess,  who  came  with  a 
whole  plate  full  of  spice-nuts. 

*'  I  bake  the  best  in  all  Dalecarlia,"  said  she  ;  "  but  they 
are  of  the  old  fashion,  from  my  grandmother's  time.  You  cut 
out  so  well,  sir,  should  you  not  be  able  to  cut  me  out  some 
new  fashions  ? " 

And  I  sat  the  whole  of  Midsummer  Night,  and  clipped  fash- 
ions for  spice-nuts.  Nut-crackers  with  knight's  boots  ;  wind- 
mills which  were  both  mill  and  miller  —  but  in  slippers,  and 
with  the  door  in  the  stomach  •  and  ballet-dancers  that  pointed 
with  one  leg  toward  the  seven  stars.  Grandmother  got  them, 
but  she  turned  the  ballet-dancers  up  and  down  ;  the  legs  went 
too  high  for  her ;  she  thought  that  they  had  one  leg  and  three 
arms. 

"  They  will  be  new  fashions,"  said  she  ;  "but  they  are  dif- 
ficult." 


XIX. 

AT  THE  LAKE  OF  SILJAN. 

WE  are  rar  ap  in  Dalarne,  at  the  Lake  of  Siljan,  —  "  Da- 
lame's  eye,"  where  the  island  of  Soller,  with  the  shining 
white  church,  forms  the  eye-stone.  At  midsummer  time  it  is 
delightful  to  be  up  here.  The  distant  mountains  appear  of  a 
clear  blue  hue  ;  the  sunlight  pours  out  over  the  bright,  shining 
surface  of  water,  where  now  and  then  the  desert  fairy,  the  witch 
of  the  Mediterranean  Sea,  Fata  Morgana,  comes  and  builds  her 
airy  castle.  The  Dal-peasant  will  tell  you  of  the  merman  swim- 
ming across  the  Lake  of  Siljan,  like  the  river-horse,  with  his 
mane  of  green  rushes.  Look  out  over  the  water,  where  boats 
are  coming  with  bride  and  bridegroom  and  their  attendants, 
singing  and  playing  ;  look  up  at  the  neighboring  woody  slopes, 
where  the  red-painted  wooden  houses  glitter  in  the  sunshine, 
where  the  goat-bells  tinkle,  and  songs  resound  full  and  mighty, 
as  if  resounded  through  the  shepherd's  "  luur,"  "  hoa !  hoa  !  " 
It  is  charming  here  on  a  summer  day,  charming,  also,  in  win- 
ter time,  although  the  mercury  freezes  in  the  severe  cold.  The 
skies  then  seem  to  be  higher  and  bluer ;  the  pine-woods  stand 
green  in  the  white  snow.  The  coal-burners'  fires  shine  through 
it ;  the  swift  hunter  chases  the  wolf  and  the  bear,  and  hun- 
dreds of  sleighs  are  gliding  over  Siljans'  deep  waters,  upon  its 
mirror  of  ice  ;  the  driver's  furs,  his  cap,  and  beard  are  covered 
with  rime.  Come  and  see  it  by  the  full  moon's  light,  by  the 
red  and  green  flashes  of  the  aurora  borealis.  Enter  the  room 
when  the  fire  sparkles  in  the  stove  and  the  family  sit 
around  it.  There  is  a  home  feeling  about  it  all.  Ask  the 
Dal-people  !  wherever  they  go  in  the  world  and  however  well 
they  succeed,  they  always  have  a  longing  for  their  lowly  home  : 
"  We  live  so  affectionately  together  at  home,"  they  say. 
Health,  a  love  of  work,  and  good-humor  are  the  Dal-peasant's 


AT  THE  LAKE   OF  SILJA N.  1 99 

riches ;  he  has  the  feeling,  besides,  of  an  ancient  line,  that  he  is 
nobly  born,  and  that  he  is  master  of  the  house,  and  its  squire  ; 
even  the  king  he  says  "  thou  "  to.  Once  when  one  of  the 
grandsons  of  King  Carl  Johan  was  in  Dalarne,  an  old  peasant 
came  up  to  him,  pressed  his  hand,  and  said,  "  Please  greet 
thy  old  grandfather  for  me  at  Stockholm  !  " 

The  Dal-people  are  fond  of  singing  and  dancing.  They 
have  the  harp  and  the  buckhorn,  the  bagpipe  and  the  violin. 
They  are  a  people  endowed  with  a  poetic  heart,  and  the  po- 
etic heart  loves  its  king.  The  Dal-people  endured  a  long 
while  the  violence  and  evils  which  avaricious  and  wicked  offi- 
cers of  justice  (Fogder)  practiced  in  the  King's  name.  That 
was  under  the  Danish  government.  The  Danes  in  old  time 
acted  very  harshly  in  the  Swedish  country ;  the  Swedish  sol- 
dier bore  it  in  mind  when,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  X.,  he  was 
so  severe  upon  the  peasantry  in  Denmark. 

Blessed  be  the  harps  that  sounded,  the  voices  that  sung  of 
reconciliation !  Blessed  be  the  modern  time  !  Let  us  already 
in  this  world  understand  and  love  each  other  !  There  is  such 
happiness  when  neighbors  and  brothers  live  together  in  unity 
and  friendship.  May  the  sunlight  of  peace  in  God  shine  over 
these  countries  ! 

The  historical  traditions  from  Dalarne  turn  our  thoughts 
to  those  bloody  days ;  it  was  in  Dalarne  that  Sweden's  star 
of  unity  rose. 

The  Scandinavian  Queen  Margareta  was  not  a  kind  mother 
to  her  Swedish  country.  King  Eric  of  Pomerania,  whom  some 
coming  poet  may  place  before  the  tribunal  of  nations,  was  still 
harsher  toward  it ;  his  name  resounded  with  maledictions 
under  the  cruelties  of  rough  "  Fogder."  "  Swenska  Folkets 
Sago-Haefder "  ("Traditions  of  the  Swedish  People")  tells 
us  of  the  "prison-stone"  by  the  open  sea,  on  which  the 
peasant  was  placed  naked  in  frost  and  cold  ;  tells  us  how 
heroes  were  hung  up  in  smoke,  and  often  stifled  by  it.  That 
was  according  to  justice,  they  said,  when  he  could  not  or 
would  not  pay.  If  the  peasant's  last  jade  died,  they  put  him 
to  the  plough  and  his  wife  to  the  hay- cart.  A  Danish  "  Foged," 
Josse  Ericson,  as  cruel  as  the  Swiss  Gessler,  did  all  that  was 
cruel  and  evil  toward  the  brave  Dal-people  ;  the  bitter  cup  at 


200  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

last  ran  over  its  edges,  and  the  Dal-men  drove  him  away  and 
bade  him  take  care  not  to  show  himself  among  them  again. 
The  arrows  were  sharpened,  the  steel  bows,  taken  out,  and 
Engelbrecht  Engelbrechtsson  chosen  their  leader.  He  lived  at 
"  Kopparberget "  (the  copper  mountain),  where  now  Fahlun  is 
situated  ;  he  was  in  the  flower  of  his  manhood,  free-born  and 
noble  ;  he  had  served  in  foreign  countries,  and  was  skillful  in 
the  use  of  weapons  and  chivalric  customs.  To  rebel  against 
the  "  Foged,"  said  he,  was  to  rebel  against  the  King,  and  he 
bade  them  restrain  themselves  until  he  had  made  the  long 
journey  to  Copenhagen  and  spoken  with  the  King.  The 
little  square  built  Dalcarl,  with  his  bright  eyes,  his  proud 
forehead,  and  the  hair  hanging  down  over  his  temples,  entered 
the  hall  of  King  Eric,  and  uttered  with  clear  and  loud  voice 
his  people's  complaints.  Good  promises  were  given  him,  but 
they  were  not  kept,  and  Engelbrecht  went  the  second  time 
to  the  King  but  that  time  he  was  not  admitted.  So  the  Dal- 
people  rose  under  the  lead  of  Engelbrecht,  drove  away  the 
wicked  "  Fogder,"  and  destroyed  their  houses :  the  Dal-axe 
cut  off  the  tie  between  King  Eric  and  the  Swedish  kingdom. 

History  throws  a  gleam  over  Dalarne,  and  its  pages  utter 
stirring  sounds  when  you  visit  this  country.  It  was  at  the 
Lake  of  Siljan,  where  Rattvik  and  Mora's  church  steeples  are 
mirrored  in  its  surface,  and  in  the  dark  forests  here,  that  Gus- 
tavus  Vasa,  abandoned  and  pursued,  strolled  about  in  the  bitter 
days  of  his  youth,  —  the  proud  subject  of  picture  and  song. 
Christjern  had  decreed  that  the  best  members  of  the  noble 
family  of  Sture,  and  among  them  the  young  Gustavus  Ericson 
Vasa,  should  be  carried  as  hostages  to  Copenhagen,  and  there 
be  confined  in  "the  blue  tower."  Soon  after,  however,  Gusta- 
vus was  transferred  to  a  milder  prison,  to  that  of  Kalo  Castle 
in  Jutland.  His  youth  and  beauty  captivated  all ;  he  was  al- 
lowed to  go  about  surrounded  only  by  a  few  guards.  He  was 
often  seen  sitting  half  dreaming,  and  with  his  large  blue  eyes 
sadly  looking  out  over  the  Kattegat,  toward  the  Swedish  shores. 
They  thought  him  safe,  and,  taking  advantage  of  this  security, 
he  escaped,  ran  through  woods  and  over  heaths,  and  did  not 
stop  until  he  was  twelve  miles  from  his  prison.  Jutland  cattle 
were  then  driven  to  Germany,  and  Gustavus  Vasa  became  a 


AT  THE  LAKE   OF  SILJAN.  20I 

cattle-drover.  In  that  disguise  he  reached  Lubeck,  where  he 
pleaded  his  cause  so  well  before  the  burgomaster  and  coun- 
cil, that  they  gave  him  protection,  and  sent  him  on  board  a 
ship  bound  for  Sweden.  He  landed  at  Steenso  Cape,  near 
Calmar,  where  he  went  ashore,  and  as  most  of  the  peoj^le  here 
still  depended  on  King  Christjern's  promises  of  mildness  and 
grace,  Gustavus  was  obliged  to  slink  away  during  the  night 
through  the  dense  forests  of  his  country  ;  the  best  men  of  the 
family  of  Sture  gathered  here  like  outlaws,  and  the  Danish 
*'  Fogder  "  searched  for  them,  but  most  of  all  for  Gustavus. 
The  soldiers  marched  up  to  Stockholm,  where  the  massacre 
took  place.  At  the  report  of  this,  Gustavus  fled  to  Dalarne. 
Dressed  as  a  Dal-peasant,  with  an  axe  on  his  shoulder,  he 
came  to  "  Rankhyttan,"  two  miles  from  Fahlun,  and  here,  in 
the  house  of  his  former  school  companion,  the  rich  miner 
Anders  Pehrson,  he  entered  his  service  and  threshed  grain  for 
wages.  It  happened  that  the  servant-girl  saw  the  collar  em- 
broidered with  gold-thread,  which  he  had  under  his  coarse 
dress,  and  told  it  to  her  master,  who  then  privately  called  Gus- 
tavus before  him  :  he  heard  now  from  him  of  the  massacre  in 
Stockholm,  of  Gustavus'  mother  who  was  imprisoned  in  Copen- 
hagen, of  all  the  hardships  Sweden  was  suffering,  and  the  life 
and  blood  that  were  sacrificed  ;  but  they  were  lost  words,  and 
Gustavus  was  obliged  to  run  away  from  "  Rankhyttan  "  and  to 
seek  refuge  in  the  forests.  It  was  winter  time  ;  the  ice  on 
"  Lille  Aaen  "  (the  little  river)  broke  under  his  weight ;  he 
dried  his  wet  clothes  at  the  fire  in  Glottorps'  ferry-cottage,  and 
then  wandered  to  Orness,  where  Arendt  Pehrson  lived  :  but  he 
was  a  false  friend  to  him,  and  betrayed  him,  and  sent  for  the 
"  Foged,"  who  came  with  seven  of  his  men.  They  were  al- 
ready in  the  yard,  but  Arendt's  wife,  the  kind  Barbro  Stigsdot- 
ter,  had  warned  Gustavus,  who,  before  they  entered  the  room, 
swung  himself  down  from  the  opening  in  the  roof  to  the  boy, 
who  by  Barbro 's  orders  was  on  hand  with  a  sleigh  and  horse, 
and  they  drove  away  to  Korsness,  to  the  Sandwicks  cottages, 
and  to  the  lake  of  Swartsjd  (the  black  lake),  all  the  time  chased 
and  startled  by  spies  and  persecutors.  He  was  well  received 
by  the  parson,  Mr.  Jonn,  his  school-boy  friend.  During  the 
eight  days  he  remained  here,  they  talked  quietly  and  heartily 


202  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

together  about  Sweden.  But  Arendt  from  Orness,  and  the 
"  Foged,"  constantly  sending  out  spies  in  search  of  him,  Gus- 
tavus  was  again  obliged  to  flee,  and  scarcely  had  he  entered  the 
hospitable  room  of  Mr.  Swen  in  Isala,  when  the  people  of  the 
"  Foged  "  arrived  ;  but  Swen's  wife  ingeniously  rushed  upon 
Gustavus,  gave  him  a  blow  on  the  back,  and  scolded  at  him 
with  an  angry  voice  :  "  Why  do  you  stand  gaping  there  at  the 
strangers,  as  if  you  had  never  seen  people  before ;  hurry  out 
in  the  barn  and  thresh !  "  Gustavus  feigned  stupidity,  and 
went  out  to  thresh.  The  "  Foged's  "  people  did  not  think  that 
the  beaten  chap  was  the  one  they  were  sent  to  catch.  All  the 
roads  in  Dalarne  swarmed  with  spies  and  armed  people  ;  they 
were  in  search  of  the  outlaws,  but  especially  of  Gustavus  Eric- 
son  Vasa. 

The  Dal-people  knew  that  he  was  up  there,  they  knew  that 
he  had  given  himself  up  to  them,  and  every  one  of  them  swore 
in  their  hearts  that  he,  as  a  guest,  should  be  safe  among  them, 
and  none  w^ould  betray  him,  like  Arendt  of  Orness.  Sw^en  in 
Isala  thought  that  Gustavus  was  not  safe  in  his  house,  and 
wished  to  have  him  further  up  in  the  forest  near  the  town  of 
Harness.  Here  lived  two  honest  men,  the  brothers  Maths  and 
Pehr  Olofsson  ;  but  on  all  the  roads  thither,  at  every  gate  and 
at  each  bridge,  stood  men  w^atching  ;  therefore  Gustavus  was 
hidden  in  a  cart-load  of  straw,  driven  by  Swen  himself,  and 
that,  too,  amongst  the  messengers  of  the  "Fogder."  One  of 
them  thrust  his  long  spear  into  the  straw  and  pierced  Gustavus 
in  his  leg.  It  made  but  a  slight  wound,  still  the  blood  dripped 
from  the  straw^,  and  Swen,  perceiving  it,  secretly  cut  his  horse's 
foot  so  that  it  bled,  and  nobody  had  any  suspicion  of  the  wound. 
In  the  forests  of  Leksand,  at  the  river  of  Liungsoe,  under  a 
large  fallen  tree,  whose  wide-spreading  branches  covered  a  large 
space,  the  brothers  hid  the  fugitive  during  three  nights  and 
days,  and  supplied  him  with  food.  One  night,  besides,  he  had 
his  shelter  here  under  the  branches  of  a  large  overhanging 
birch-tree.  Here  the  resolution  sprang  up  within  him  to 
speak  to  the  assembled  people,  and  he  ventured  to  go  to  Råt- 
tvik.  In  the  church-yard  he  spoke  to  the  parishioners  of  the 
massacre  in  Stockholm,  and  of  all  the  evils  the  Swedish  people 
were  suffering.     The  multitude  became  enraged,  and  swore  to 


AT  THE  LAKE   OF  SILJAN.  203 

take  vengeance,  but  were  cautious  enough  first  to  hear  what 
the  neighboring  parishes  would  say  about  these  things. 

Gustavus  went  by  Mora  to  the  town  of  Ulmeland,  where 
Maths  Larsson's  wife  hid  him  in  her  cellar,  and  placed  a  large 
beer-tub  over  the  trap-door,  so  that  the  Foged  people  might 
not  find  him  when  they  came.  He  was  hidden  here  till  Christ- 
mas-time, and  on  one  of  the  holy  days  he  ascended  a  hill  at 
Mora,  and  spoke  with  high  and  sonorous  voice  to  the  Dal- 
men,  as  they  came  from  church.  He  put  them  in  mind  of  their 
forefathers'  love  of  liberty  and  father-land,  how  they  had  fought 
under  Engelbrecht  and  the  Stures ;  he  spoke  of  the  massacre 
in  Stockholm,  and  of  Christjern's  cruelties  toward  Sture's  widow 
and  children.  The  whole  assemblage  was  touched,  some  of 
them  wept,  others  cried  out  that  they  would  fly  to  arms,  but 
soon  many  others  came  forward  and  spoke  against  Gustavus. 
They  said  that  Christjern's  bloodshed  concerned  only  the  no- 
bles and  not  the  peasants  ;  and  they  might  well  believe  it,  be- 
cause Christjern,  so  tyrannical  to  the  nobility,  was  the  poor 
man's  friend.  His  humane  laws  protecting  the  cruelly  treated 
peasants  are  witnesses  in  his  favor  in  the  present  time.  The 
Mora  fellows  wavered  in  their  intentions,  and  most  of  them 
advised  Gustavus  to  go  further  away,  across  the  Norwegian 
frontiers,  and  he  went  away  disheartened,  despairing  of  his 
country. 

The  Norway  mountains  were  already  in  sight ;  with  dejected 
mind  he  made  a  halt,  hungry  and  thirsty.  The  bells  chimed 
from  Lima  church ;  he  went  in  there  to  pray.  His  despond- 
ent heart  was  raised  in  ardent  prayer  to  his  God,  and  that  gave 
him  courage,  fire,  and  strength  once  more  to  speak  to  the  peas- 
ants. They  heard  him,  they  understood  him,  but  dared  not 
do  anything,  and  he  went  away  again  and  came  to  the  town  of 
Saelen,  the  last  Swedish  town  on  the  frontier  of  Norway. 
Once  more,  last  of  all,  he  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  Dal-coun- 
try,  and  threw  his  glance  over  its  pine-woods,  its  ice  and  snow. 
Then  came  with  the  swiftness  of  steam  two  men  on  skates, 
hurrying  over  ice  and  crusty  snow  ;  they  were  fleet  runners  dis- 
patched from  the  people  in  Mora  to  look  for  Gustavus  and  call 
him  back  to  be  their  chieftain.  Our  Lord  ordered  that  just  as 
Gustavus   departed   from  Mora,  the  renowned  warrior,  Lars 


20^  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

Olafsson,  arrived,  an  outlaw.  He  told  them  of  the  massacre, 
and  that  Christjern  was  erecting  gallows  all  about  in  the 
country,  and  that  he  would  soon  do  the  same  in  Dalarne ;  that 
taxes  and  burdens  were  to  be  laid  on  them  for  their  faithful- 
ness to  the  Stures  ;  and  they  repented  of  letting  Gustavus  go. 
Then  arose  an  old  man  and  said,  that  every  time  Gustavus 
spoke  here  a  fresh  north  wind  had  blown  :  they  remembered 
this,  and  as  it  is  an  old  superstition  here  that  every  enterprise 
undertaken  when  the  north  wind  blows  will  succeed,  they  all 
rose  at  once,  and  vowed  they  would  sacrifice  life  and  projjerty 
for  father-land  and  for  Gustavus  Ericson  Vasa. 

He  was  received  with  a  great  welcome  in  Mora,  and  marched 
with  one  thousand  men  to  "  the  great  copper  mountain,"  and 
took  as  prisoners  the  bailiff  of  the  mines  and  others  of  Chris- 
tjern's  men.  The  outlaws  sought  him  wherever  he  came  ;  every- 
body joined  him,  and  his  army  had  increased  to  fifteen  thou- 
sand men  when  at  Brunbaeck  ferry  he  met  his  armed  enemies, 

"  And  more  Dal-arrows  swam  in  the  air, 
Than  hail  rains  down  from  the  sky," 

says  an  old  song.  Dal-arrows  whistled  over  Dal-Elven's 
stream. 

"  A  people  that  eat  bark  and  drink  nothing  but  water,  the 
devil  himself  cannot  master !  "  said  the  Danish  bishop  Belden- 
ack,  who  went  there  to  advise  his  countrymen  to  come  away. 
But  the  Dal-men  rushed  on,  corpses  lay  side  by  side,  pierced 
by  steel  arrows  that  entered  the  breast  and  came  out  at  the 
back.  The  Danes  lost  heavily,  and  the  Dal-people  still  sing,  — 
"  From  broad  and  deep  Brunbacka's  bank 

The  Jutes  were  hurled  and  heavily  sank; 

So  Danes  were  driven  from  Sweden." 

And  Gustavus  with  his  Dal-men  advanced  to  Upsala,  gave  bat- 
tle at  Brunkeberg,  and  made  his  triumphal  entrance  into  Stock- 
holm, where  he  could  then  say  to  his  Dal-men,  as  an  old  lay 

sings,— 

"  You  have  stood  by  my  side  like  faithful  Swedish  men, 
And  if  God  will  grant  me  life,  I  will  recompense  you  again." 

And  now  to  Dalarne,  where  Gustavus  wandered  forlorn  and 
persecuted  ;  to  Dalarne,  where  the  people  are  frugal  and  con- 
tented, where  the  old  steel  bows  and  arrows  are  hanging  over 


AT  THE  LAKE   OF  SILJAN.  205 

the  chimney ;  where  dancing  goes  on  round  the  May-poles  at 
midsummer  time, —  there  we  will  go,  painter  and  poet !  We 
are  a  little  of  both  together,  otherwise  we  should  not  under- 
stand them. 

The  coach  is  ready,  the  coachman  waits.  From  Leksand 
we  drive  along  the  lake  to  Rattvik  and  Mora.  The  driver 
will  tell  you  of  King  Gustavus,  every  child  knows  of  him  ;  and 
if  you  are  a  Dane,  and  the  peasant  perceives  it,  he  will  with 
a  friendly  smile  talk  with  you  of  the  old  hostile  times,  and  of 
the  harmony  that  now  exists.  "  We  know  each  other,  and  we 
are  so  much  alike.  Danes  visit  us,  and  Swedes  visit  the  Danes  ; 
the  Swedish  soldiers  wrote  home  and  told  how  well  they  were 
received  in  the  country  of  the  Danes."  He  will  tell  you  how 
well  they  understood  each  other,  how  closely  they  resembled 
each  other,  in  customs  and  manners,  in  belief  and  ways  of 
thinking.  He  will  also  tell  you  how  abundantly  corn  grows  in 
Sweden,  and  even  up  in  Dalarne.  Not  many  years  ago  the 
famine  was  so  great  that  the  peasant  went  to  the  dean  to  buy  a 
bunch  of  straw,  which  was  cut  fine  and  mixed  with  the  bark- 
bread  and  eaten.  ''  Now  these  are  good  days  !  "  he  says  j  and 
he  shows  you  his  black,  hard  "  Knukke-brod,"  ^  which  he  breaks 
with  his  white,  strong  teeth.  The  sun  shines  bright  over  the 
dark,  woody  mountains  and  over  the  quiet  surface  of  the  lake. 

From  the  road  at  Bergsang,  the  view  stretches  over  Siljan 
Lake  ;  from  here  you  will  see  the  copper  steeple  of  Mora 
church,  and  behind  it  the  blue  mountains  in  double  rank.  The 
traveller  does  not  go  farther  than  to  Bergsang ;  here  he  turns 
back  ;  he  has  now  seen  the  most  beautiful  parts  of  Dalarne, 
but  he  has  not  seen  the  country  in  all  its  variety.  Below  us, 
but  near  by,  lies  Rattvik  church,  shining  white  like  a  swan 
on  the  green  lake ;  we  are  going  to  a  friendly  home,  to  the 
parsonage,  to  happy,  good-natured  people.  The  wood  is  fra- 
grant, wild  currant  bushes  grow  round  about,  the  midsummer 
^ov^er,  Primula  farinosa,  blooms  with  its  red  leaves. 

"  You  are  very  welcome  !  "  and  you  are  ushered  into  the 
large  garden-parlor  of  the  parsonage.  It  is  as  cold  here  as  in 
winter,  although  it  is  midsummer,  but  it  soon  becomes  com- 
fortable ;  large  pieces  of  wood  are  placed  on  end  in  both  chim- 
1    Crack-bread  ;  a  sort  of  hard,  dried  bread  of  oatmeal. 


206  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

neys,  the  fire  sparkles  and  lifts  its  flames  on  high.  Familiar 
neighbors,  the  minister,  the  doctor,  friends  from  surrounding 
farms  are  gathered,  the  punch-bowl  steams,  and  the  conversa- 
tion becomes  animated,  fresh,  and  hearty,  like  nature  up  here. 

After  supper  we  take  a  walk  down  to  the  church  ;  the  strong 
sunlight  shines  upon  the  illuminated  statues.  Out  of  the 
church  door  stands  the  poor-box,  called  Lazarus,  —  a  very 
strange  '.vooden  image  representing  a  beggar.  Now  come  men, 
women,  and  children  ;  a  corpse  is  followed  to  the  grave  ;  men  lift 
their  hats  for  the  dead  one,  the  same  custom  which  Catholic 
countries  have.  We  walk  through  the  wood,  passing  a  little 
cornfield.  One  of  our  company  said  to  us,  "  Passing  here  last 
summer  I  saw  a  person  in  the  midst  of  the  field  who  I  thought 
was  the  minister,  and  was  going  to  bid  him  good-day  ;  but  I  saw 
in  a  moment  that  it  was  "Nalle,"  as  we  call  him,  a  large  bear, 
walking  on  his  hind  legs  in  very  good  humor,  gnawing  at  an  ear 
of  corn  and  growling  a  little.  I  did  not  wish  him  good-day  ;  I 
took  care  of  myself,  and  he  did  the  same." 

From  the  wood  we  came  out  on  the  highway,  from  which 
the  church  of  Rattvik,  the  lake,  and  the  distant  mountains, 
formed  a  beautiful  view ;  we  came  to  the  new  bath-house  ; 
it  is  comfortable  and  well  arranged,  with  pleasant  rooms,  a 
reading-room,  and  bathing-rooms.  There  you  may  see  Dal- 
mummies,  —  living,  fresh-blooming,  red-cheeked  men,  wrapped 
up  in  blankets,  with  the  head  only  free ;  they  are  the  bath- 
guests,  just  coming  up  from  the  cold  bath.  The  water-cure  is 
precisely  the  same  as  that  in  Graefenberg  in  Silesia.  Books 
and  newspapers  lie  on  the  table  in  the  reading-room.  By 
these  you  touch  again  the  threads  of  the  living,  turbulent 
world  ;  you  feel  through  the  electro-magnetic  current  of  printed 
words  what  stirs  and  happens  abroad ;  and  again  you  spring 
into  the  open  air  and  rejoice  in  the  sunlight,  in  the  exhala- 
tions of  the  birch-trees,  by  the  open  Siljan  Lake. 

We  walk  to  the  minister's  house  under  the  lofty  trees  and 
with  a  view  over  the  lake.  It  is  so  pleasant  and  pretty  in 
these  small  rooms  ;  well-known  names  speak  to  us  from  the 
large  book-shelves  ;  all  the  modern  literature  of  Scandinavia 
is  waiting  for  the  winter  to  open  its  enchanted  garden,  when 
ice  and  snow  cover  the  earth,  and  Dalarne  is  shut  out  from 


AT  THE  LAKE   OF  SILJA  AT.  2  0/ 

Europe.  Poetry  and  science  flow  from  eternal  sources,  while 
nature  must  slumber  its  winter  sleep. 

From  Rattvik  we  drove  to  Mora,  where  Gustavus  spoke 
to  the  folk  ;  we  went  up  to  the  porphyry,  factory  where  fine 
vases  are  fashioned ;  we  went  on  horseback  on  the  lonely, 
narrow  wood  path  up  to  the  cottages  of  the  Finns.  It  is 
lonely  and  sacred,  full  of  grandeur  and  variety  in  Dalarne,  but 
most  beautiful  of  all  at  Siljan. 

Painter,  take  your  sketch  book  and  colors,  go  up  to  Dalarne, 
and  one  picture  after  another  will  reveal  itself  to  you.  Come 
hither  in  the  spring-time,  when  the  young  fellows  are  going  into 
camp  to  drill  ;  take  your  place  on  the  route  near  the  gate  as 
the  whole  crowd  comes  with  the  fiddler  at  their  head.  Chil- 
dren and  old  folks  are  standing  upon  the  hill,  under  the  droop- 
ing birch,  bidding  them  farewell. 

Enter  the  cloth  room  :  no  Turk's  room  can  show  such  a 
richness  of  colors  as  here.  The  cloth  room  is  usually  an 
isolated  wooden  house,  and  is  the  family's  wardrobe  ;  it  is 
built  upon  high  poles  to  hinder  rats  and  other  animals  from 
entering  ;  a  ladder  is  placed  at  the  door  that  you  may  enter. 
Under  the  ceiling  and  on  the  walls  are  women's  skirts  and 
dresses  of  all  colors,  suspended  on  hoops,  to  an  incredible 
number ;  every  person  of  the  family  possesses  often  seventeen 
or  eighteen  pieces.  Here  you  will  see  aprons  and  bodices, 
the  men's  coats,  vests,  and  breeches  ;  there  are  such  a  quan- 
tity of  hose  and  stockings  that  it  seems  as  if  they  were  grow- 
ing out  of  the  earth.  The  linen  seems  to  have  its  distinct 
place,  both  that  with  sleeves  and  without.  The  floor  is  cov- 
ered with  shoes,  so  clumsy,  ingenious,  and  hump-backed  that 
it  seems  to  me  a  real  invention  to  make  such  a  pair.  The 
prayer-books  are  placed  in  a  row  on  the  flower-painted  shelf; 
the  wall  itself,  if  you  may  see  it  for  clothes,  is  also  painted. 
There  for  instance  you  will  see  the  prophet  Elias  hovering  in 
his  fiery  chariot,  drawn  by  sun-horses,  which  in  the  painting 
very  much  resemble  hogs ;  also  Jacob  in  his  wrestle  with  the 
angel.  The  angel  is  dressed  in  dress-coat,  leather  breeches,  and 
cavalry-boots.  On  the  windows  are  painted  scriptural  sen- 
tences and  names  ;  tulips  and  roses  are  blooming  here  which 
you  would  never  have  seen  in  nature.     Give  us  a  picture  of 


20S  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

the  clothing  room  when  the  young  girls  come  for  their 
dresses,  or  are  hanging  them  up  again.  You  will  perhaps, 
say  :  "  That  is  nothing  to  paint ; "  well,  be  that  so,  but  there 
is  something  to  see,  and  therefore  come. 

Painter  and  poet,  shake  hands  and  go  up  to  Dalarne;  that 
poor  country  is  rich  in  beauty  and  poetry,  and  richest  at  Sil- 
jan  Lake. 


XX. 

FAITH   AND    KNOWLEDGE. 

TRUTH  can  never  be  at  variance  with  truth,  science  can 
never  miUtate  against  faith  :  we  naturally  speak  of  them 
both  in  their  purity :  they  respond  to  and  they  strengthen 
man's  most  glorious  thought :  immortality.  And  yet  you  may 
say,  "  I  was  more  peaceful,  I  was  safer  when,  as  a  child,  I 
closed  my  eyes  on  my  mother's  breast  and  slept  without 
thought  or  care,  wrapping  myself  up  simply  in  faith."  This 
prescience,  this  compound  of  understanding  in  everything, 
this  entering  of  the  one  link  into  the  other  from  eternity  to 
eternity,  tears  away  from  me  a  support  —  my  confidence  in 
prayer ;  that  which  is,  as  it  were,  the  wings  wherewith  to 
fly  to  my  God !  If  it  be  loosened,  then  I  fall  powerless  in 
the  dust,  without  consolation  or  hope. 

I  bend  my  energies,  it  is  true,  toward  attaining  the  great 
and  glorious  light  of  knowledge,  but  it  appears  to  me  that 
therein  is  human  arrogance :  it  is,  as  if  one  should  say,  "  I  will 
be  as  wise  as  God."  "  That  you  shall  be  !  "  said  the  serpent 
to  our  first  parents  when  it  would  seduce  them  to  eat  of  the 
tree  of  knowledge.  Through  my  understanding  I  must  ac- 
knowledge the  truth  of  what  the  astronomer  teaches  and 
proves.  I  see  the  wonderful,  eternal  omniscience  of  God  in 
the  whole  creation  of  the  world  —  in  the  great  and  in  the  small, 
where  the  one  attaches  itself  to  the  other,  is  joined  with  the 
other,  in  an  endless  harmonious  entireness ;  and  I  tremble  in 
my  greatest  need  and  sorrow.  What  can  my  prayer  change, 
where  everything  is  law,  from  eternity  to  eternity  ? 

You  tremble  as  you  see  the  Almighty,  who  reveals  Himself 
in  all  loving-kindness  —  that  Creator,  according  to  man's  ex- 
pression, whose  understanding  and  heart  are  one ;  you  trem- 
ble when  you  know  that  He  has  elected  you  to  immortality 
14 


2IO  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

I  know  it  in  the  faith,  in  the  holy,  eternal  words  of  the  Bible. 
Knowledge  lays  itself  like  a  stone  over  my  grave,  but  my 
faith  is  that  which  breaks  it. 

Now,  thus  it  is  !  The  smallest  flower  preaches  from  its 
green  stalk,  in  the  name  of  knowledge  —  immortality.  Hear 
it  !  the  beautiful  also  bears  proofs  of  immortalit}',  and  with 
the  conviction  of  faith  and  knowledge,  the  immortal  will  not 
tremble  in  his  greatest  need  :  the  wings  of  prayer  will  not 
droop  ;  you  will  believe  in  the  eternal  laws  of  love,  as  you  be- 
lieve in  the  laws  of  sense. 

When  the  child  gathers  flowers  in  the  fields  and  brings  us 
the  whole  handful,  where  one  is  erect  and  the  other  hangs  the 
head,  thrown  as  it  were  among  one  another,  then  it  is  that  we 
see  the  beaut}'  in  every  one  by  itself —  that  harmony  in  color 
and  in  form  which  pleases  our  eye  so  well.  We  arrange  them 
instinctively,  and  every  single  beauty  is  blended  together  in  one 
entire  beauteous  group.  We  do  not  look  at  the  flower,  but  on 
the  whole  bouquet.  The  beauty  of  harmony  is  an  instinct  in 
us  ;  it  lies  in  our  eyes  and  in  our  ears,  those  bridges  between 
our  soul  and  the  creation  around  us  —  in  all  our  senses  there 
is  such  a  divine,  such  an  entire  and  perfect  stream  in  our 
whole  being,  a  striving  after  the  harmonious,  as  it  shows  itself 
in  all  created  things,  even  in  the  pulsations  of  the  air,  made 
visible  in  Chladni's  figures. 

In  the  Bible  we  find  the  expression  :  "  God  in  spirit  and  in ' 
truth,"  —  and  hence  we  most  significantly  find  an  expression 
for  the  admission  of  what  we  call  a  feeling  of  the  beautiful ; 
for  what  else  is  this  revelation  of  God  but  spirit  and  truth  ? 
And  just  as  our  own  soul  shines  out  of  the  eye  and  the  fine 
movement  around  the  mouth,  so  does  the  created  image  shine 
forth  from  God  in  spirit  and  truth.  There  is  harmonious 
beauty  from  the  smallest  leaf  and  flower  to  the  large,  swelling 
bouquet ;  from  our  earth  itself  to  the  numberless  globes  in  the 
firmamental  space  —  as  far  as  the  eye  sees,  as  far  as  science 
ventures,  all,  small  and  great,  is  beauty  and  harmony. 

But  if  we  turn  to  mankind,  for  whom  we  have  the  highest, 
the  holiest  expression,  "created  in  God's  image,"  —  man,  who 
is  able  to  comprehend  and  admit  in  himself  all  God's  creation, 
the  harmony  in  the  harmony  then  seems  to  be  defective,  for 


FAITH  AND  KNOWLEDGE.  2  I  I 

at  our  birth  we  are  all  equal !  as  creatures  we  have  equally 
"  no  right  to  demand  ; "  yet  how  differently  God  has  granted  us 
abilities  !  some  few  so  immensely  great,  others  so  mean  !  At 
our  birth  God  places  us  in  our  homes  and  positions  ;  and  to 
how  many  of  us  are  allotted  the  hardest  struggles  !  We  are 
placed  there,  introduced  there —  how  many  may  not  justly  say: 
"  It  were  better  for  me  that  I  had  never  been  born  !  " 

Human  life,  consequently,  —  the  highest  here  on  the  earth, 
—  does  not  come  under  the  laws  of  harmonious  beauty  :  it 
is  inconceivable,  it  is  an  injustice,  and  thus  cannot  take 
place. 

The  defect  of  harmony  in  life  lies  in  this,  —  that  we  only 
see  a  small  part  thereof,  namely,  existence  here  on  the  earth : 
there  must  be  a  life  to  come  —  an  immortality. 

That,  the  smallest  flower  preaches  to  us,  as  does  all  that  is 
created  in  beauty  and  harmony. 

If  our  existence  ceased  with  death  here,  then  the  most  per- 
fect work  of  God  was  not  perfect ;  God  was  not  justice  and 
love,  as  everything  in  nature  and  revelation  affirms  ;  and  if 
we  be  referred  to  the  whole  of  mankind,  as  that  wherein  har- 
mony will  reveal  itself,  then  our  whole  actions  and  endeavors 
are  but  as  the  labors  of  the  coral  insect :  mankind  becomes 
but  a  monument  of  greatness  to  the  Creator :  He  would  then 
only  have  raised  His  glory,  not  shown  His  greatest  love. 
Loving-kindness  is  not  self-love. 

We  are  immortal !  In  this  rich  consciousness  we  are  raised 
toward  God,  fundamentally  sure  that  whatever  happens  to  us 
is  for  our  good.  Our  earthly  eye  is  only  able  to  reach  to  a 
certain  boundary  in  space  ;  our  soul's  eye  also  has  but  a  lim- 
ited scope  ;  but  beyond  that,  the  same  laws  of  loving-kindness 
must  reign,  as  here.  The  prescience  of  eternal  omniscience 
cannot  alarm  us ;  we  human  beings  can  apprehend  the  no- 
tion thereof  in  ourselves.  We  know  perfectly  what  develop- 
ment must  take  place  in  the  different  seasons  of  the  year;  the 
time  for  flowers  and  for  fruits  ;  what  kinds  will  come  forth  and 
thrive ;  the  time  of  maturity,  when  the  storms  must  prevail, 
and  when  it  is  the  rainy  season.  Thus  must  God,  in  an  infin- 
itely greater  degree,  have  the  same  knowledge  of  the  whole 
created  globes  of  His  universe,  as  of  our  earth  and  the  human 


2  I  2  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN: 

race  here.  He  must  know  when  that  development,  that  flow- 
ering in  the  human  race  ordained  by  Himself,  shall  come  to 
pass  \  when  the  powers  of  intellect,  of  full  development,  are 
to  reign  ;  and  under  these  characters,  come  to  a  maturity  of 
development,  men  will  become  mighty,  driving-wheels  —  every 
one  be  the  eternal  God's  likeness  indeed. 

History  shows  us  these  things  :  joint  enters  into  joint,  in  the 
world  of  spirits,  as  well  as  in  the  materially  created  world ; 
the  eye  of  wisdom  —  the  all-seeing  eye  —  encompasses  the 
whole  !  And  should  we  then  not  be  able,  in  our  heart's  dis- 
tress, to  pray  to  this  Father  with  confidence  —  to  pray  as  the 
Saviour  prayed :  "  If  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me ; 
nevertheless,  not  as  I  will,  but  as  Thou  wilt." 

These  last  words  we  do  not  forget !  and  our  prayer  will  be 
granted,  if  it  be  for  our  good  ;  or  if  it  be  not,  then  let  us,  as 
the  child  here,  that  in  its  trouble  comes  to  its  earthly  father, 
and  does  not  get  its  wish  fulfilled,  but  is  refreshed  by  mild 
words,  and  the  affectionate  language  of  reason,  so  that  the 
eye  weeps,  which  thereby  mitigates  sorrow,  and  the  child's 
pain  is  soothed.  This  will  prayer  also  grant  us  :  the  eye  will 
be  filled  with  tears,  but  the  heart  will  be  full  of  consolation ! 
And  who  has  penetrated  so  deeply  into  the  ways  of  the  soul, 
that  he  dare  deny  that  praj-er  is  the  wings  that  bear  thee  to 
that  sphere  of  inspiration  whence  God  will  extend  to  thee  the 
olive-branch  of  help  and  grace  ? 

By  walking  with  open  eyes  in  the  path  of  knowledge,  we 
see  the  glory  of  the  Annunciation.  The  wisdom  of  genera- 
tions is  but  a  span  on  the  high  pillar  of  revelation,  above 
which  sits  the  Almighty ;  but  this  short  span  will  grow 
through  eternity,  in  faith  and  with  faith.  Knowledge  is  like 
a  chemical  test  that  pronounces  the  gold  pure  1 


XXI. 

IN   THE    FOREST, 

WE  are  a  long  way  over  the  Elv.  We  have  left  the  corn- 
fields behind,  and  have  just  come  into  the  forest, 
where  we  halt  at  that  small  inn,  which  is  ornamented  over 
the  doors  and  windows  with  green  branches  for  the  Midsum- 
mer Festival.  The  whole  kitchen  is  hung  round  with  branches 
of  birch  and  the  berries  of  the  mountain-ash  :  the  oat-cakes 
hang  on  long  poles  under  the  ceiling  ;  the  berries  are  sus- 
pended above  the  head  of  the  old  woman  who  is  just  scouring 
her  brass  kettle  bright. 

The  tap-room,  where  the  peasants  sit  and  carouse,  is  just  as 
finely  hung  round  with  green.  Midsummer  raises  its  leafy 
arbor  everywhere,  yet  it  is  most  flush  in  the  forest — it  extends 
for  miles  around.  Our  road  goes  for  miles  through  that  for- 
est, without  seeing  a  house,  or  the  possibility  of  meeting  trav- 
ellers, driving,  riding,  or  walking.  Come  !  The  ostler  puts 
fresh  horses  to  the  carriage :  come  with  us  into  the  large 
woody  tract :  we  have  a  regular  trodden  way  to  travel,  the  air  is 
clear ;  here  is  summer's  warmth  and  the  fragrance  of  birch  and 
linden.  It  is  an  up  and  down  hill  road,  always  bending,  and  so 
ever  changing,  but  yet  always  forest  scenery  —  the  close,  thick 
forest.  We  pass  small  lakes,  which  lie  as  still  and  deep  as  if 
they  concealed  night  and  sleep  under  their  dark,  glassy  sur- 
faces. 

We  are  now  on  a  forest  plain,  where  only  charred  stumps 
of  trees  are  to  be  seen  ;  this  long  tract  is  black,  burnt,  and 
deserted  —  not  a  bird  flies  over  it.  Tall,  hanging  birches 
now  greet  us  again  ;  a  squirrel  springs  playfully  across  the 
road,  and  up  into  the  tree  ;  we  cast  our  eye  searchingly  over 
the  wood-grown  mountain-side,  which  slopes  far,  far  forward, 
but  not  a  trace  of  a   house   is   to   be   seen  :    nowhere    does 


2  I  4  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

that  bluish  smoke-cloud  rise  that  shows  us  here  are  fellow- 
men. 

The  sun  shines  warm ;  the  flies  dance  around  the  horses, 
settle  on  them,  fly  off"  again,  and  dance,  as  though  it  were  to 
qualify  themselves  for  resting  and  being  still.  They  perhaps 
think  :  "  Nothing  is  going  on  without  us  :  there  is  no  life  while 
we  are  doing  nothing."  They  think,  as  many  persons  think, 
and  do  not  remember  that  Time's  horses  always  fly  onward 
with  us  ! 

How  solitary  it  is  here !  —  so  delightfully  solitary  !  one  is 
so  entirely  alone  with  God  and  one's  self.  As  the  sunlight 
streams  forth  over  the  earth,  and  over  the  extensive  solitary  for- 
ests, so  does  God's  spirit  stream  over  and  into  mankind  ;  ideas 
and  thoughts  unfold  themselves  —  endless,  inexhaustible,  as 
He  is  —  as  the  magnet  which  apportions  its  powers  to  the  steel, 
and  itself  loses  nothing  thereby.  As  happens  on  our  journey 
through  the  forest  scenery  here  along  the  extended,  solitary 
road,  so,  travelling  on  the  great  high-road  of  thought,  ideas 
pass  through  our  head.  Strange,  rich  caravans  pass  by  from 
the  works  of  the  poets,  from  the  home  of  memory  —  strange 
and  novel  for  capricious  fancy  gives  birth  to  them  at  the  mo- 
ment. There  comes  a  procession  of  pious  children  with  wav- 
ing flags  and  joyous  songs  ;  there  come  dancing  Mænads,  the 
blood's  wild  Bacchantes.  The  sun  pours  down  hot  in  the  open 
forest :  it  is  as  if  the  southern  summer  had  laid  itself  up  here 
to  rest  in  Scandinavian  forest  solitude,  and  sought  itself  out  a 
glade  where  it  might  lie  in  the  sun's  hot  beams  and  sleep  : 
hence  this  stillness,  as  if  it  were  night.  Not  a  bird  is  heard  to 
twitter,  not  a  pine-tree  moves  :  of  what  does  the  southern 
summer  dream  here  in  the  North,  amongst  pines  and  fra- 
grant birches  ? 

In  the  writings  of  the  olden  time,  from  the  classic  soil  of 
the  South,  are  sagas  of  mighty  fairies  who,  in  the  skins  of 
swans,  flew  toward  the  North,  to  the  Hyperborean  land,  to 
the  east  of  the  north  wind  ;  up  there,  in  the  deep,  still  lakes, 
they  bathed  themselves,  and  acquired  a  renewed  form.  We 
are  in  the  forest  by  these  deep  lakes  ;  we  see  swans  in  flocks 
fly  over  us,  and  swim  upon  the  rapid  Elv  and  on  the  still  waters. 
The  forests,  we  perceive,  continue  to  extend  further  toward 


IN  THE  FOREST. 


215 


the  west  and  the  north,  and  are  more  dense  as  we  proceed : 
the  carriage-roads  cease,  and  one  can  only  pursue  one's  way 
along  the  outskirts  by  the  solitary  path,  and  on  horseback. 

The  saga,  from  the  time  of  the  plague  (a.  d.  1350),  here  im- 
presses itself  on  the  mind,  when  the  pestilence  passed  through 
the  land,  and  transformed  cultivated  fields  and  towns  —  nay, 
whole  parishes  —  into  barren  fields  and  wild  forests.  Deserted 
and  forgotten,  overgrown  with  moss,  grass,  and  bushes,  churches 
stood  for  years  far  in  the  forest ;  no  one  knew  of  their  exist- 
ence, until,  in  a  later  century,  a  huntsman  lost  himself  here : 
his  arrow  rebounded  from  the  green  wall,  the  moss  of  which 
he  loosened,  and  the  church  was  found.  The  wood-cutter 
felled  the  trees  for  fuel ;  his  axe  struck  against  the  overgrown 
wall,  and  it  gave  way  to  the  blow  ;  the  fir-planks  fell,  and  the 
church  from  the  time  of  the  pestilence  was  discovered ;  the 
sun  again  shone  bright  through  the  openings  of  the  doors  and 
windows,  on  the  brass  candelabra  and  the  altar,  where  the 
communion-cup  still  stood.  The  cuckoo  came,  sat  there,  and 
sang:  "  Many,  many  years  shalt  thou  live  !  " 

Woodland  solitude  !  what  images  dost  thou  not  present  to 
our  thoughts  !  Woodland  solitude  !  through  thy  vaulted  halls 
people  now  pass  in  the  summer  time  with  cattle  and  domestic 
utensils  ;  children  and  old  men  go  to  the  solitary  pasture 
where  echo  dwells,  where  the  national  song  springs  forth  with 
the  wild  mountain  flower !  Dost  thou  see  the  procession  ? 
paint  it  if  thou  canst !  The  broad  wooden  cart  laden  high 
with  chests  and  barrels,  with  jars  and  with  crockery.  The 
bright  copper  kettle  and  the  tin  dish  shine  in  the  sun.  The  old 
grandmother  sits  at  the  top  of  the  load  and  holds  her  spinning- 
wheel,  which  completes  the  pyramid.  The  father  drives  the 
horse,  the  mother  carries  the  youngest  child  on  her  back, 
sewed  up  in  a  skin,  and  the  procession  moves  on  step  by  step. 
The  cattle  are  driven  by  the  half-grown  children  :  they  have 
stuck  a  birch  branch  between  one  of  the  cow's  horns,  but  she 
does  not  appear  to  be  proud  of  her  finery,  —  she  goes  the  same 
quiet  pace  as  the  others  and  lashes  the  saucy  flies  with  her  tail. 
If  the  night  becomes  cold  on  this  solitary  pasture^  there  is  fuel 
enough  here  — the  tree  falls  of  itself  from  old  age,  and  lies  and 
rots. 


2  1 6  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

But  take  especial  care  of  the  fire  :  fear  the  fire-spirit  in  the 
forest  desert !  He  comes  from  the  unextinguishable  pile  :  he 
comes  from  the  thunder-cloud,  riding  on  the  blue  lightning's 
flame,  which  kindles  the  thick  dry  moss  of  the  earth  :  trees  and 
bushes  are  kindled,  the  flames  run  from  tree  to  tree  —  it  is  like 
a  snow-storm  of  fire  !  the  flame  leaps  to  the  tops  of  the  trees 
—  what  a  crackling  and  roaring,  as  if  it  were  the  ocean  in  its 
course  !  The  birds  fly  upward  in  flocks,  and  fall  down  suffo- 
cated by  the  smoke  ;  the  animals  flee,  or,  encircled  by  the  fire, 
are  consumed  in  it !  Hear  their  cries  and  roars  of  agony  I 
The  howling  of  the  wolf  and  the  bear,  —  dost  thou  know  it  ?  A 
calm,  rainy  day,  and  the  forest-plains  themselves  alone  are  able 
to  confine  the  fiery  sea,  and  the  burnt  forest  stands  charred, 
with  black  trunks  and  black  stumps  of  trees,  as  we  saw  them 
here  in  the  forest  by  the  broad  high-road.  On  this  road  we 
continue  to  travel,  but  it  becomes  worse  and  worse  ;  it  is,  prop- 
erly speaking,  no  road  at  all,  but  it  is  about  to  become  one. 
Large  stones  lie  half  dug  up,  and  we  drive  past  them ;  large 
trees  are  cast  down,  and  obstruct  our  way,  and  therefore  we 
must  descend  from  the  carriage.  The  horses  are  taken  out, 
and  the  peasants  help  to  lift  and  push  the  carriage  forward 
over  ditches  and  opened  paths. 

The  sun  now  ceases  to  shine  \  some  few  rain-drops  fall,  and 
now  it  is  a  steady  rain.  But  how  it  causes  the  birch  to  shed 
its  fragrance  !  At  a  distance  there  are  huts  erected,  of  loose 
trunks  of  trees  and  fresh  green  boughs,  and  in  each  there  is  a 
large  fire  burning.  See  where  the  blue  smoke  curls  through 
the  green  leafy  roof;  peasants  are  within  at  work,  hammering 
and  forging ;  here  they  have  their  meals.  They  are  now  lay- 
ing a  mine  in  order  to  blast  a  rock,  and  the  rain  falls  faster 
and  faster,  and  the  pine  and  birch  emit  a  finer  fragrance.  It 
is  delightful  in  the  forest. 


XXII. 

FAHLUN. 

WE  made  our  way  at  length  out  of  the  forest,  and  saw  a 
town  before  us  enveloped  in  thick  smoke,  having  a 
similar  appearance  to  most  of  the  English  manufacturing 
towns,  save  that  the  smoke  was  greenish  —  it  was  the  town 
Fahlun. 

The  road  now  went  downward  between  large  banks,  formed 
by  the  dross  deposited  here  from  the  smelting  furnaces,  and 
which  looks  like  burnt-out  hardened  lava.  No  sprout  or  shrub 
was  to  be  seen,  not  a  blade  of  grass  peeped  forth  by  the  way- 
side, not  a  bird  flew  past,  but  a  strong  sulphureous  smell,  as 
from  among  the  craters  in  Solfatara,  filled  the  air.  The  cop- 
per roof  of  the  church  shone  with  corrosive  green. 

Long  straight  streets  now  appeared  in  view.  It  was  aj> 
deathly  still  here  as  if  sickness  and  disease  had  lain  within 
these  dark  wooden  houses,  and  frightened  the  inhabitants  from 
coming  abroad  ;  yet  sickness  and  disease  come  but  to  few 
here,  for  when  the  plague  raged  in  Sweden,  the  rich  and  pow- 
erful of  the  land  hastened  to  Fahlun,  whose  sulphureous  air 
was  the  most  healthy.  An  ochre-yellow  water  runs  through 
the  brook,  between  the  houses  :  the  smoke  from  the  mines 
and  smelting  furnaces  has  imparted  its  tinge  to  them  ;  it 
has  even  penetrated  into  the  church,  whose  slender  pillars 
are  dark  from  the  fumes  of  the  copper.  There  chanced  to 
come  on  a  thunder-storm  when  we  arrived,  but  its  roaring  and 
the  lightning's  flashes  harmonized  well  with  this  town,  which 
appears  as  if  it  were  built  on  the  edge  of  a  crater. 

We  went  to  see  the  copper  mine  which  gives  the  whole  dis- 
trict the  name  of  "  Stora-Kopparberget "  (the  great  copper 
mountain).  According  to  the  legend,  its  riches  were  discov- 
ered by  two  goats  which  were  fighting  —  they  struck  the  ground 
with  their  horns  and  some  copper  ore  adhered  to  them. 


2  1  S  PICTURES   OF  SWEDEN. 

From  the  solitary  red-ochre  street  we  wandered  over  the 
great  heaps  of  burnt-out  dross  and  fragments  of  stone,  accu- 
mulated to  whole  ramparts  and  hills.  The  fire  shone  from 
the  smelting  furnaces  with  green,  j'ellow,  and  red  tongues  of 
flame  under  a  blue-green  smoke  ;  half-naked,  black-smeared 
fellows  threw  out  large  glowing  masses  of  fire,  so  that  the 
sparks  flew  around  and  about :  one  was  reminded  of  Schiller's 
"  Fridolin." 

The  thick  sulphureous  smoke  poured  forth  from  the  heaps 
of  cleansed  ore,  under  which  the  fire  was  in  full  activity,  and 
the  wind  drove  it  across  the  road  which  we  must  pass.  In 
smoke,  and  impregnated  with  smoke,  stood  building  after 
building:  three  buildings  had  been  strangely  thrown,  as  it 
were,  by  one  another :  earth  and  stone-heaps,  as  if  they  were 
unfinished  works  of  defense,  extended  around.  Scafi'olding, 
and  long  wooden  bridges,  had  been  erected  there ;  large 
wheels  turned  round ;  long  and  heavy  iron  chains  were  in 
continual  motion. 

We  stood  before  an  immense  gulf,  called  "  Stora  Stoten  " 
(the  great  mine).  It  had  formely  three  entrances,  but  they  fell 
in  and  now  there  is  but  one.  This  immense  sunken  gulf 
now  appears  like  a  vast  valley:  the  many  openings  below,  to 
the  shafts  of  the  mine,  look,  from  above,  like  the  sand- 
martin's  dark  nestholes  in  the  declivities  of  the  shore  :  there 
were  a  few  wooden  huts  down  there.  Some  strangers  in 
miners'  dresses,  with  their  guide,  each  carrying  a  lighted  fir- 
torch,  appeared  at  the  bottom,  and  disappeared  again  in  one 
of  the  dark  holes.  From  within  the  dark  wooden  houses,  in 
which  great  water-wheels  turned,  issued  some  of  the  workmen. 
They  came  from  the  dizzying  gulf —  from  narrow,  deep  wells  : 
they  stood  in  their  wooden  shoes  two  and  two,  on  the  edge 
of  the  tun  which,  attached  to  heavy  chains,  is  hoisted  up, 
singing,  and  swinging  the  tun  on  all  sides:  they  came  up 
merry  enough.     Habit  makes  one  daring. 

They  told  us  that,  during  the  passage  upward,  it  often  hap- 
pened that  one  or  another,  from  pure  wantonness,  stepped 
quite  out  of  the  tun,  and  sat  himself  between  the  loose  stones 
on  the  projecting  piece  of  rock,  whilst  they  fired  and  blasted 
the  rock  below  so  that  it  shook  again,  and  the  stones  about 


FAHLUN. 


219 


him  thundered  down.  Should  one  expostulate  with  him  on 
his  foolhardiness,  he  would  answer  with  the  usual  witticism 
here  :  "  I  have  never  before  killed  myself." 

One  descends  into  some  of  the  shafts  by  a  sort  of  ma- 
chiner}^,  which  looks  as  if  they  had  placed  two  iron  ladders 
against  each  other,  each  having  a  rocking  movement,  so  that 
by  treading  on  the  ascending-step  on  the  one  side  and  then 
on  the  other,  which  goes  upward,  one  gradually  ascends,  and 
by  going  on  the  downward  sinking-step  one  gets  by  degrees 
to  the  bottom.  They  said  it  was  very  easy,  only  one  must  step 
boldly,  so  that  the  foot  should  not  come  between  and  get 
crushed ;  and  then  one  must  remember  that  there  is  no  rail- 
ing or  balustrade  here,  and  directly  outside  these  stairs  there 
is  the  deep  abyss  into  which  one  may  fall  headlong.  The 
deepest  shaft  has  a  perpendicular  depth  of  more  than  a 
hundred  and  ninety  fathoms  ;  but  for  this  there  is  no  danger, 
they  say,  only  one  must  not  be  dizzy,  nor  get  alarmed.-  One 
of  the  workmen,  who  had  come  up,  descended  with  a  lighted 
pine-branch  as  a  torch  :  the  flame  illumined  the  dark  rocky 
wall,  and  by  degrees  became  only  a  faint  streak  of  light 
which  soon  vanished. 

We  were  told  that  a  few  days  before,  five  or  six  school-boys 
had,  unobserved,  stolen  in  here,  and  amused  themselves  by 
going  from  step  to  step  on  these  machine-like  rocking  stairs, 
in  pitchy  darkness,  but  at  last  they  knew  not  rightly  which 
way  to  go,  up  or  down,  and  they  began  to  shout  and  scream 
lustily.     They  escaped  luckily  that  bout. 

By  one  of  the  large  openings  called  "  Fat  Mads,"  there  are 
rich  copper  mines,  but  which  have  not  yet  been  worked.  A 
building  stands  above  it :  it  was  at  the  bottom  of  this  that  they 
found,  in  the  year  17 19,  the  corpse  of  a  young  miner.  It  ap- 
peared as  if  he  had  fallen  down  that  very  day,  so  unchanged 
did  the  body  seem  —  but  no  one  knew  him.  An  old  woman 
then  stepped  forward  and  burst  into  tears ;  the  deceased  was 
her  bridegroom,  who  had  disappeared  forty-nine  years  ago. 
She  stood  there  old  and  wrinkled  ;  he  looked  as  young  as  when 
they  had  met  for  the  last  time  nearly  half  a  century  before.-* 

1  In  another  mine  they  found,  in  the  year  1635,  a  corpse  perfectly  fresh, 
and  almost  with  the  appearance  of  one  asleep  ;  but  his  clothes,  and  the 


2  20  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

We  went  to  "  The  Plant  House,"  as  it  is  called,  where  the 
vitriolated  liquid  is  crystallized  to  sulphate  of  copper.  It  grew 
like  long  sticks  placed  upright  in  the  boiling  water,  resembling 
long  pieces  of  grass-green  sugar.  The  steam  was  pungent, 
and  the  air  in  here  flavored  our  tongues — it  was  just  as  if 
one  had  a  corroded  spoon  in  one's  mouth.  It  was  really  a  lux- 
ury to  come  out  again,  even  into  the  rarefied  copper  smoke, 
under  the  open  sky. 

Steaming,  burnt-out,  and  herbless  as  the  district  is  on  this 
side  of  the  town,  it  is  just  as  refreshing,  green,  and  fertile  on 
the  opposite  side  of  Fahlun.  Tall  leafy  trees  grow  close  to 
the  farthest  houses.  One  is  directly  in  the  fresh  pine  and 
birch  forests,  thence  to  the  lake  and  to  the  distant  bluish 
mountain  sides  near  Sather. 

The  people  here  can  tell  you  and  show  you  memorials  of 
Engelbrekt  and  his  Dalecarlians'  deeds,  and  of  Gustavus 
Vasa's  adventurous  wanderings.  But  we  will  remain  here  in 
this  smoke-enveloped  town,  with  the  silent  street's  dark  houses. 
It  was  almost  midnight  when  we  went  out  and  came  to  the  mar- 
ket-place. There  was  a  wedding  in  one  of  the  houses,  and  a 
great  crowd  of  persons  stood  outside,  the  women  nearest  the 
house,  the  men  a  little  further  back.  According  to  an  old  Swed- 
ish custom,  they  called  for  the  bride  and  bridegroom  to  come 
forward,  and  they  did  so  —  they  durst  not  do  otherwise.  Peas- 
ant girls,  with  candles  in  their  hands,  stood,  on  each  side  ;  it 
was  a  perfect  tableau :  the  bride  with  downcast  eyes,  the  bride- 
groom smiling,  and  the  young  bridesmaids  each  with  a  laugh- 
ing face.  And  the  people  shouted  :  "  Now  turn  yourselves  a 
little  !  now  the  back  !  now  the  face  !  the  bridegroom  quite 
round,  the  bride  a  little  nearer  !  "  And  the  bridal  pair  turned 
and  turned  —  nor  was  criticism  wanting.  In  this  instance, 
however,  it  was  to  their  praise  and  honor,  but  that  is  not 
always  the  case.  It  may  be  a  painful  and  terrible  hour  for  a 
newly-wedded  pair  :  if  they  do  not  please  the  public,  or  if  they 
have  something  to  say  against  the  match,  or  the  persons  them- 
selves, they  are  then  soon  made  to  know  what  is  thought  of 
them.    There  is  perhaps  also  heard  some  rude  jest  or  another, 

ancient  copper  coins  found  on  him,  bore  witness  that  it  was  two  hundred 
years  since  he  had  perished  there. 


FAHLUN.  22  1 

accompanied  by  the  laughter  of  the  crowd.  We  were  told, 
that  even  in  Stockholm  the  same  custom  was  observed  among 
the  lower  classes  until  a  few  years  ago ;  so  that  a  bridal  pair, 
who,  in  order  to  avoid  this  exposure,  wanted  to  drive  off,  were 
stopped  by  the  crowd,  the  carriage-door  was  opened  on  each 
side,  and  the  whole  public  marched  through  the  carriage. 
They  would  see  the  bride  and  bridegroom  —  that  was  their 
right. 

Here,  in  Fahlun,  the  exhibition  was  friendly  ;  the  bridal 
pair  smiled,  the  bridesmaids  also,  and  the  assembled  crowd 
laughed  and  shouted  hurra  !  In  the  rest  of  the  market-place 
and  the  streets  around,  there  was  dead  silence  and  solitude. 

The  roseate  hue  of  eve  still  shone  :  it  passed,  changed  into 
that  of  morn  —  it  was  the  Midsummer  time. 


XXIII. 

WHAT  THE  STRAWS  SAID. 

ON  the  lake  there  glided  a  boat,  and  the  party  within  it 
sang  Swedish  and  Danish  songs  ;  but  by  the  shore,  un- 
der that  tall,  hanging  birch,  sat  four  young  girls  —  so  pretty 
—  so  sylph-like  !  and  they  each  plucked  up  from  the  grass 
four  long  straws,  and  bound  these  straws  two  and  two  together, 
at  the  top  and  the  bottom. 

"  We  shall  now  see  if  they  will  come  together  in  a  square," 
said  the  girls  :  "  if  it  be  so,  then  that  which  I  think  of  will 
be  fulfilled,"  and  they  bound  them,  and  they  thought. 

No  one  came  to  know  the  secret  thought,  the  heart's  silent 
wish  of  the  others.     But  yet  a  little  bird  sings  about  it. 

The  thoughts  of  one  flew  over  sea  and  land,  over  the  high 
mountains,  where  the  mule  finds  its  way  in  the  mists  down  to 
Mignon's  beautiful  land,  where  the  old  gods  live  in  marble 
and  painting.  "  Thither,  thither !  shall  I  ever  get  there  ? " 
That  was  the  wish,  that  was  the  thought,  and  she  opened  her 
hand,  looked  at  the  bound  straws,  and  they  appeared  only  two 
and  two  bound  together. 

And  where  were  the  second  one's  thoughts  ?  also  in  foreign 
lands,  in  the  gunpowder's  smoke,  amongst  the  glitter  of  arms 
and  cannons,  with  him  the  friend  of  her  childhood,  fighting 
for  imperial  power  against  the  Hungarian  people.  Will  he 
return  joyful  and  unharmed  —  return  to  Sweden's  peaceful, 
well-constituted,  happy  land?  The  straws  showed  no  square: 
a  tear  dwelt  in  the  girl's  eye. 

The  third  smiled  :  there  was  a  sort  of  mischief  in  the  smile. 
Will  our  aged  bachelor  and  that  old  maiden-lady  yonder,  who 
now  wander  along  so  young,  smile  so  young,  and  speak  so 
youthfully  to  each  other,  not  be  a  married  couple  before  the 
cuckoo  sings  again  next  year?     See  —  that  is  what  I  should 


WHAT  THE  STRAIVS  SAID.  223 

like  to  know  !  and  the  smile  played  around  the  thinker's  mouth, 
but  she  did  not  speak  her  thoughts.  The  straws  were  separated 
—  consequently  the  bachelor  and  the  old  maid  also.  "  It 
may,  however,  happen  nevertheless,"  she  certainly  thought : 
it  was  apparent  in  the  smile ;  it  was  obvious  in  the  manner  in 
which  she  threw  the  straws  away. 

"  There  is  nothing  I  would  know  —  nothing  that  I  am  curi- 
ous to  know  !  "  said  the  fourth  ;  but  yet  she  bound  the  straws 
together  ;  for  within  her  also  there  was  a  wish  alive  ;  but  no 
bird  has  sung  about  it ;  no  one  guesses  it. 

Rock  thyself  securely  in  the  heart's  lotus  flower,  thou  shining 
humming-bird,  thy  name  shall  not  be  pronounced  :  and  besides, 
the  straws  said  as  before  —  "  Without  hope  !  " 

"  Now  you  !  now  you  ! "  cried  the  young  girls  to  a  stranger, 
far  from  the  neighboring  land,  from  the  green  isle,  that  Gylfe 
ploughed  from  Sweden.  "  What  dear  thing  do  you  wish  shall 
happen,  or  not  happen  !  —  tell  us  the  wish  !  "  —  "  If  the  ora- 
cle speaks  well  for  me,"  said  he,  "  then  I  will  tell  you  the 
silent  wish  and  prayer,  with  which  I  bind  these  knots  on  the 
grass  straw  ;  but  if  I  have  no  better  success  than  you  have 
had,  I  will  then  be  silent !  "  and  he  bound  straw  to  straw,  and 
as  he  bound,  he  repeated  :  "  It  signifies  nothing !  "  He  now 
opened  his  hand,  his  eyes  shone  brighter,  his  heart  beat  faster. 
The  straws  formed  a  square  !  "  It  will  happen,  it  will  happen  !  " 
cried  the  young  girls.  "  What  did  you  wish  for  ?  "  —  "  That 
Denmark  may  soon  gain  an  honorable  peace  ! " 

"  It  will  happen !  it  will  happen  !  "  said  the  young  girls ; 
"  and  when  it  happens,  we  will  remember  that  the  straws  have 
told  it  beforehand." 

"  I  will  keep  these  four  straws,  bound  in  a  prophetic  wreath 
for  victory  and  peace !  "  said  the  stranger  ;  "  and  if  the  oracle 
speaks  truth,  then  I  will  draw  the  whole  picture  for  you  as  we 
sit  here  under  the  hanging  birch  by  the  lake,  and  look  on 
Sather's  blue  mountains,  each  of  us  binding  straw  to  straw." 

A  red  mark  was  made  in  the  almanac  :  it  was  the  6th  of 
July,  1849.  The  same  day  a  red  page  was  written  in  Den- 
mark's history.  The  Danish  soldier  made  a  red,  victorious 
mark  with  his  blood,  at  the  battle  of  Fredericia. 


XXIV. 

THE    poet's    symbol. 

IF  a  man  would  seek  for  the  symbol  of  the  poet,  he  need  not 
look  farther  than  "  The  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments." 
Scheherezade  who  interprets  the  stories  for  the  Sultan  —  Sche- 
herazade is  the  poet,  and  the  Sultan  is  the  public  who  is  to  be 
agreeably  entertained,  or  else  he  will  decapitate  Scheherezade. 

Powerful  Sultan  !     Poor  Scheherezade  ! 

The  Sultan-public  sits  in  more  than  a  thousand  and  one 
forms,  and  listens.     Let  us  regard  a  few  of  these  forms. 

There  sits  a  sallow,  peevish  scholar ;  the  tree  of  his  life 
bears  leaves  impressed  with  long  and  learned  words :  diligence 
and  perseverance  crawl  like  snails  on  the  hog's  leather  bark  : 
the  moths  have  got  into  the  inside  —  and  that  is  bad,  very 
bad  !  Pardon  the  rich  fullness  of  the  song,  the  inconsiderate 
enthusiasm,  the  fresh  young  intellect.  Do  not  behead  Schehe- 
rezade !     But  he  beheads  her  out  of  hand,  sans  remorse. 

There  sits  a  dress-maker,  a  seamstress  who  has  had  some 
experience  of  the  world.  She  comes  from  strange  families, 
from  a  solitary  chamber  where  she  sat  and  gained  a  knowledge 
of  mankind  —  she  knows  and  loves  the  romantic.  Pardon, 
Miss,  if  the  story  has  not  excitement  enough  for  you,  who 
have  sat  over  the  needle  and  the  muslin,  and  having  had  so 
much  of  life's  prose,  gasp  after  romance. 

"  Behead  her  !  "  says  the  dress-maker. 

There  sits  a  figure  in  a  dressing-gown  —  this  oriental  dress 
of  the  North,  for  the  lordly  minion,  the  petty  prince,  the  brewer's 
son,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  It  is  not  to  be  learned  from  the  dressing- 
gown,  nor  from  that  lordly  look  and  the  fine  smile  around  the 
mouth,  to  what  stem  he  belongs  :  his  demands  on  Scheherezade 
are  just  the  same  as  the  dress-maker's  ;  he  must  be  excited, 
he  must  be  brought  to  shudder  all  down  the  vertebras,  through 


THE  POET'S  SYMBOL. 


225 


the  very  spine :  he  must  be  crammed  with  mysteries,  such  as 
those  which  Spriez  knew  about. 

Scheherezade  is  beheaded  ! 

Wise,  enlightened  Sultan  !  Thou  comest  in  the  form  of  a 
school-boy ;  thou  bearest  the  Romans  and  Greeks  together  in 
a  satchel  on  thy  back,  as  Atlas  sustained  the  world.  Do  not 
cast  an  evil  eye  upon  poor  Scheherezade  ;  do  not  judge  her 
before  thou  hast  learned  thy  lesson,  and  art  a  child  again,  — 
do  not  behead  Scheherezade  ! 

Young,  full-dressed  diplomatist,  on  whose  breast  we  can 
count,  by  the  badges  of  honor,  how  many  courts  thou  hast 
visited  with  thy  princely  master,  speak  mildly  of  Schehere- 
zade's  name !  speak  of  her  in  French,  that  she  may  be  enno- 
bled above  her  mother  tongue !  translate  but  one  strophe  of 
her  song,  as  badly  as  thou  canst,  but  carry  it  into  the  bril- 
liant saloon,  and  her  sentence  of  death  is  annulled  in  the 
sweet,  absolving  charmant ! 

Mighty  annihilator  and  elevator !  —  the  newspapers'  Zeus 
—  thou  weekly,  monthly,  and  daily  journals'  Jupiter,  shake 
not  thy  locks  in  anger  !  Cast  not  thy  lightnings  forth,  if 
Scheherezade  sing  otherwise  than  thou  art  accustomed  to  in 
thy  family,  or  if  she  go  without  a  suite  of  thine  own  clique. 
Do  not  behead  her  ! 

We  will  see  one  figure  more  —  the  most  dangerous  of  them 
all ;  he  with  the  praise  on  his  lips,  like  that  of  the  stormy 
river's  swell  —  the  blind  enthusiast.  The  water  in  which 
Scheherezade  dipped  her  fingers,  is  for  him  a  fountain  of  Cas- 
talia ;  the  throne  he  erects  to  her  apotheosis  becomes  her 
scaffold. 

This  is  the  poet's  symbol  —  paint  it :  — 

"THE   SULTAN   AND   SCHEHEREZADE." 

But  why  none  of  the  worthier  figures  —  the  candid,  the 
honest,  and  the  beautiful  ?  They  come  also,  and  on  them 
Scheherezade  fixes  her  eye.  Encouraged  by  them,  she  boldly 
raises  her  proud  head  aloft  toward  the  stars,  and  sings  of  the 
harmony  there  above,  and  here  beneath  in  man's  heart. 

That  will  not  clearly  show  the  symbol :  — 

"THE  SULTAN   AND  SCHEHEREZADE." 

IS 


2  26  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

The  sword  of  death  hangs  over  her  head  whilst  she  relates 
—  and  the  Sultan-figure  bids  us  expect  that  it  will  fall.  Schehe- 
rezade  is  the  victor :  the  poet  is,  like  her,  also  a  victor.  He  is 
rich,  victorious  —  even  in  his  poor  chamber,  in  his  most  solitary 
hours.  There,  in  that  chamber,  rose  after  rose  shoots  forth  ; 
bubble  after  bubble  sparkles  on  the  magic  stream.  The  heavens 
shine  with  shooting-stars,  as  if  a  new  firmament  were  created, 
and  the  old  rolled  away.  The  world  does  not  know  it,  for  it 
is  the  poet's  own  creation,  richer  than  the  king's  costly  illu- 
minations. He  is  happy,  as  Scheherezade  is ;  he  is  victorious, 
he  is  mighty.  Imagination  adorns  his  walls  with  tapestry,  such 
as  no  land's  ruler  owns  ;  feeling  makes  the  beauteous  chords 
sound  to  him  from  the  human  breast ;  understanding  raises 
him,  through  the  magnificence  of  creation,  up  to  God,  without 
his  forgetting  that  he  stands  fast  on  the  firm  earth.  He  is 
mighty,  he  is  happy,  as  few  are.  We  will  not  place  him  in  the 
stocks  of  misconstruction,  for  pity  and  lamentation  ;  we  merely 
paint  his  symbol,  dip  into  the  colors  on  the  world's  least 
attractive  side,  and  obtain  it  most  comprehensively  from  — 

"THE   SULTAN   AND    SCHEHEREZADE." 

See  —  that  is  it !     Do  not  behead  Scheherezade ! 


XXV. 

THE    DAL-ELV. 

BEFORE  Homer  sang  there  were  heroes  ;  but  they  are 
not  known ;  no  i^oet  celebrated  their  fame.  It  is  just 
so  with  the  beauties  of  nature,  they  must  be  brought  into 
notice  by  words  and  delineations,  —  be  brought  before  the 
eyes  of  the  multitude  ;  get  a  sort  of  world's  patent  for  what 
they  are,  and  then  they  may  be  said  first  to  exist.  The 
elvs  of  the  north  have  rushed  and  whirled  along  for  thousands 
of  years  in  unknown  beauty.  The  world's  great  high-road 
does  take  this  direction  ;  no  steam-packet  conveys  the  trav- 
eller comfortably  along  the  streams  of  the  Dal- Elv  ;  fall  on 
fall  makes  sluices  indispensable  and  invaluable.  Schubert 
is  as  yet  the  only  stranger  who  has  written  about  the  wild 
magnificence  and  southern  beauty  of  Dalecarlia,  and  spoken 
of  its  greatness. 

Clear  as  the  waves  of  the  sea  does  the  mighty  elv  stream 
in  endless  windings  through  forest  deserts  and  varying  plains, 
sorrietimes  extending  its  deep  bed,  sometimes  confining  it, 
reflecting  the  bending  trees  and  the  red-painted  block-houses 
of  solitary  towns,  and  sometimes  rushing  like  a  cataract  over 
immense  blocks  of  rock. 

Miles  apart  from  one  another,  out  of  the  ridge  of  moun- 
tains between  Sweden  and  Norway,  come  the  east  and  west 
Dal-Elvs,  which  first  become  confluent  and  have  one  bed 
above  Bålstad.  They  have  taken  up  rivers  and  lakes  in 
their  waters.  Do  but  visit  this  place !  here  are  pictorial 
riches  to  be  found  ;  the  most  picturesque  landscapes,  dizzy- 
ingly  grand,  smilingly  pastoral  —  idyllic  :  one  is  drawn  on- 
ward up  to  the  very  source  of  the  elv,  the  bubbling  well 
above  Finman's  hut :  one  feels  a  desire  to  follow  every  branch 
of  the  stream  that  the  river  takes  in. 


2  28  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

The  first  mighty  fall,  Njupeskoers  cataract,  is  seen  by  the 
Norwegian  frontier  at  Sernasog.  The  mountain  stream 
rushes  perpendicularly  from  the  rock  to  a  depth  of  seventy 
fathoms. 

We  pause  in  the  dark  forest,  where  the  elv  seems  to  collect 
within  itself  nature's  whole  deep  gravity.  The  stream  rolls 
its  clear  waters  over  a  porphyry  soil,  where  the  mill-wheel  is 
driven,  and  the  gigantic  porphyry  bowls  and  sarcophagi  are 
polished. 

We  follow  the  stream  through  Lake  Siljan,  where  supersti- 
tion sees  the  water-sprite  swim,  like  the  sea-horse,  with  a  mane 
of  green  sea-weed,  and  where  the  aerial  images  present  visions 
of  witchcraft  in  the  warm  summer  days. 

We  sail  on  the  stream  from  Lake  Siljan,  under  the  weep- 
ing-willows of  the  parsonage,  where  the  swans  assemble  in 
flocks  ;  we  glide  along  slowly  with  horses  and  carriages  on 
the  great  ferry-boat,  away  over  the  rapid  current  under  Bål- 
stad's  picturesque  shore.  Here  the  elv  widens  and  rolls  its 
billows  majestically  in  a  woodland  landscape,  as  large  and 
extended  as  if  it  were  in  North  America. 

We  see  the  rushing,  rapid  stream  under  Avesta's  yellow 
clay  declivities  :  the  yellow  water  falls  like  fluid  amber  in 
picturesque  cataracts  before  the  copper-works,  where  rainbow- 
colored  tongues  of  fire  shoot  themselv^es  upward,  and  the 
hammer's  blows  on  the  copper  plates  resound  to  the  monoto- 
nous, roaring  rumble  of  the  elv-fall. 

And  now,  as  a  concluding  passage  of  splendor  in  the  life 
of  the  Dal-elvs,  before  they  lose  themselves  in  the  waters  of 
the  Baltic,  is  the  view  of  Elvkarleby  Fall.  Schubert  compares 
it  with  the  fall  of  Schaffhausen  ;  but  we  must  remember  that 
the  Rhine  there  has  not  such  a  mass  of  water  as  that  which 
rushes  down  Elvkarleby. 

Two  and  a  half  Swedish  miles  from  Gefle,  where  the  high- 
road to  Upsala  goes  over  the  Dal-elv,  we  see  from  the  walled 
bridge,  which  we  pass  over,  the  whole  of  that  immense  fall. 
Close  up  to  the  bridge,  there  is  a  house  where  the  bridge 
toll  is  paid.  There  the  stranger  can  pass  the  night,  and 
from  his  little  window  look  over  the  falhng  waters,  —  see  them 
in  the  clear  moonlight,  when  darkness  has  laid  itself  to  rest 


THE  DAL-ELV.  229 

within  the  thicket  of  oaks  and  firs,  and  all  the  effect  of  light 
is  in  those  foaming,  flowing  waters ;  and  see  them  when  the 
morning  sun  stretches  his  rainbow  in  the  trembling  spray,  like 
an  airy  bridge  of  colors,  from  the  shore  to  the  wood-grown 
rock  in  the  centre  of  the  cataract. 

We  came  hither  from  Gefle,  and  saw  at  a  great  distance  on 
the  way  the  blue  clouds  from  the  broken,  rising  spray,  ascend 
above  the  dark-green  tops  of  the  trees.  The  carriage  stopped 
near  the  bridge ;  we  stepped  out,  and  close  before  us  fell  the 
whole  redundant  elv. 

The  painter  cannot  give  us  the  true,  living  image  of  a 
water-fall  on  canvas  —  the  movement  is  wanting  :  how  can  one 
describe  it  in  words,  delineate  its  majestic  grandeur,  bril- 
liancy of  color,  and  arrowy  flight  ?  One  cannot  do  it ;  one 
may  however  attempt  it ;  get  together,  by  little  and  little,  with 
words,  an  outline  of  that  mirrored  image  which  our  eye  gave 
us,  and  which  even  the  strongest  remembrance  can  only 
retain — if  not  vaguely,  dubiously. 

The  Dal-elv  divides  itself  into  three  branches  above  the 
fall :  two  of  them  inclose  a  wood-grown  rocky  island,  and  rush 
down  round  its  smooth-worn  stony  wall.  The  one  to  the 
right  of  these  two  falls  is  the  finer  ;  the  third  branch  makes 
a  circuit,  and  comes  again  to  the  main  stream,  close  outside 
the  united  fall ;  here  it  dashes  out  as  if  to  meet  or  stop  the 
others,  and  is  now  hurried  along  in  boiling  eddies  with  the 
arrowy  stream,  which  rushes  on  foaming  against  the  walled 
pillars  that  bear  the  bridge,  as  if  it  would  tear  them  away 
along  with  it. 

The  landscape  to  the  left  was  enlivened  by  a  herd  of 
goats,  that  were  browsing  amongst  the  hazel  bushes.  They 
ventured  quite  out  to  the  very  edge  of  the  declivity,  as  they 
were  bred  here  and  accustomed  to  the  hollow,  thundering 
rumble  of  the  water.  To  the  right,  a  flock  of  screaming 
birds  flew  over  the  magnificent  oaks.  Cars,  each  with  one 
horse,  and  with  the  driver  standing  upright  in  it,  the  reins  in 
his  hand,  came  on  the  broad  forest  road  from  Oens  Briick. 

Thither  we  will  go  in  order  to  take  leave  of  the  Dal-elv 
at  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  places,  which  vividly  removes 
the  stranger,  as  it  were,  into  a  far  more  southern  land,  into  a 


230  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

far  richer  nature,  than  he  supposed  was  to  be  found  here. 
The  road  is  so  pretty  —  the  oak  grows  here  strong  and  vigor- 
ously, with  mighty  crowns  of  rich  foliage. 

Oens  Briick  lies  in  a  delightfully  pastoral  situation.  We 
came  thither ;  here  was  life  and  bustle  indeed  !  The  mill- 
wheels  went  round ;  large  beams  were  sawn  through  ;  the 
iron  forged  on  the  anvil ;  and  all  by  water-power.  The  houses 
of  the  workmen  form  a  whole  town  :  it  is  a  long  street  with 
red-painted  wooden  houses,  under  picturesque  oaks,  and  birch- 
trees.  The  greensward  was  as  soft  as  velvet  to  look  at,  and 
up  at  the  manor-house,  which  rises  in  front  of  the  garden 
like  a  little  palace,  there  was,  in  the  rooms  and  saloon,  every- 
thing that  the  English  call  comfort. 

We  did  not  find  the  host  at  home  ;  but  hospitality  is 
always  the  house-fairy  here.  We  had  everything  good  and 
homely.  Fish  and  wild  fowl  were  placed  before  us,  steaming 
and  fragrant,  and  almost  as  quickly  as  in  beautiful  enchanted 
palaces.  The  garden  itself  was  a  piece  of  enchantment. 
Here  stood  three  transplanted  beech-trees,  and  they  throve 
well.  The  sharp  north  wind  had  rounded  off  the  tops  of  the 
wild  chestnut-trees  of  the  avenue  in  a  singular  manner ;  they 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  under  the  gardener's  shears. 
Golden-yellow  oranges  hung  in  the  conservatory ;  the  splendid 
southern  exotics  were  to-day  enjoying  the  windows  half  open, 
so  that  the  artificial  warmth  met  the  fresh,  warm,  sunny  air  of 
the  northern  summer. 

That  branch  of  the  Dal-elv  which  goes  round  the  garden 
is  strewn  with  small  islands,  where  beautiful  hanging  birches 
and  fir-trees  grow  in  Scandinavian  splendor.  They  are  cov- 
ered with  green,  silent  groves  ;  with  rich  grass,  tall  brackens, 
variegated  bell-flowers,  and  cowslips :  no  Turkey  carpet  has 
fresher  colors.  The  stream  between  these  islands  and  holms 
is  sometimes  rapid,  deep,  and  clear ;  sometimes  like  a  broad 
rivulet  with  silky-green  rushes,  water-lilies,  and  brown-feath- 
ered reeds  ;  sometimes  it  is  a  brook  with  a  stony  ground,  and 
now  it  spreads  itself  out  in  a  large,  still  mill-dam. 

Here  is  a  landscape  in  Midsummer  for  the  games  of  the 
river-sprites,  and  the  dancers  of  the  elves  and  fairies !  Here, 
in   the   lustre  of  the  full  moon,    the   dryads   can  tell  their 


THE  DAL-ELV.  23  I 

tales,  the  water-sprite  seize  the  golden  harp,  and  believe  that 
one  can  be  blessed,  at  least  for  one  single  night  like  this. 

On  the  other  side  of  Oens  Briick  is  the  main  stream  —  the 
full  Dal-elv.  Do  you  hear  the  monotonous  rumble  ?  it  is  not 
from  Elvkarleby  Fall  that  it  reaches  hither  \  it  is  close  by ;  it 
is  from  Laa-Foss,  in  which  lies  Ash  Island  :  the  elv  streams 
and  rushes  over  the  leaping  salmon. 

Let  us  sit  here,  between  the  fragments  of  rock  by  the  shore, 
in  the  red  evening  sunlight,  which  sheds  a  golden  lustre  on 
the  waters  of  the  Dal-elv. 

Glorious  river  !  But  a  few  seconds'  work  hast  thou  to  do 
in  the  mills  yonder,  and  thou  rushest  foaming  on  over  Elvkar- 
leby's  rocks,  down  into  the  deep  bed  of  the  river,  which  '.eads 
thee  to  the  Baltic  —  thy  eternity. 


XXVI. 

PICTURES  AD  INFINITUM. 

YES,  there  is  around  us  in  the  world  an  endless  succession 
of  pictures,  a  richness  of  beauty,  and  that  even  in  minor 
things,  —  in  that  which  disappears  in  a  moment ;  in  that  which 
the  multitude  care  nothing  about. 

The  drop  of  water  from  the  stagnant  pool  contains  in  itself 
a  whole  living  world  ;  but  the  daily  drop  of  every-day  life  con- 
tains also  in  itself  a  world  of  images  of  beauty  and  poetry,  if 
one  will  only  open  one's  eyes  to  it. 

The  seer,  the  poet  shall  point  to  it,  and  with  the  clearness 
and  precision  of  the  microscope  make  it  visible,  and  then  it 
will  also  be  seen  by  the  multitude  during  its  own  wandering 
through  life,  and  they  will  have  the  seer's  joy,  because  life  is 
thus  become  richer  —  richer  in  beauty.  The  stagnant  home- 
life  has  its  richness  of  pictures,  and  how  much  then  must  trav- 
elling life  possess  it !  Even  in  what  we  call  trivial,  picture 
after  picture  moves  before  us  to  infinity,  though  each  one  may 
be  little,  very  little,  and  lacking  in  great  movements  which  we 
call  events  —  landscapes,  historic  groups  —  the  very  flowers  of 
the  travelling  garland ;  it  is  from  these  we  will  give  a  little  of 
that  leafy  green,  those  scenes  which  melt  into  each  other, 
which  come  and  vanish,  each  a  poem,  each  a  picture,  but  still 
not  important  enough  to  be  placed  alone  on  the  easel  for 
exhibition. 

We  give  a  single  hour  of  our  journey,  one  of  those  hours  in 
which  we   may  say  that  nothing  exactly  happens  ;  there  was 

nothing   to    be    seen   worth   telling    about ;   there   was 

straight  through  the  wood  to  the  high-road. 

Nothing  to  tell  and  yet  so  much.  Close  by  the  road  was  a 
high  bank,  overgrown  with  juniper-bushes  ;  in  their  fresh  green 


PICTURES  AD  INFINITUM.  233 

they  are  like  the  cypress,  but  here  they  were  all  withered  and 
had  exactly  the  same  color  as  Mephistopheles'  hair ;  below  there 
was  a  crowd  of  swine,  both  lean  and  fat,  small  and  large  ;  the 
swine-herd  stood  on  the  bank,  ragged  and  barefooted,  but 
with  a  book  in  his  hand  ;  he  was  so  absorbed  in  his  reading 
that  he  did  not  even  look  up  when  we  passed  by ;  perhaps  he 
was  a  learned  man  of  the  future. 

We  drove  by  a  farm,  and  just  as  we  passed  the  open  gate  and 
looked  at  the  house,  whose  roof  was  covered  with  grass  turf, 
which  a  man  was  laying  on  and  trimming,  a  little  tree  which 
had  for  a  couple  of  years  grown  upon  the  roof  was  cut  down ; 
we  passed  just  as  the  axe  glittered  in  the  sun  and  the  little 
green  tree  fell. 

The  ground  in  the  forest  was  overgrown  with  lilies  of  the 
valley,  which  bloomed  and  sent  forth  a  fragrance  which  was 
almost  stupefying.  The  sunbeams  fell  among  some  tall  fir- 
trees,  upon  a  spider's  immense  suspended  web,  where  all  the 
threads,  which  approached  each  other  with  mathematical  ex- 
actitude, glittered  like  fine  prisms  ;  in  the  midst  of  his  waving 
castle  the  spider  was  sitting  fat  and  ugly.  He  is  the  witch  of 
the  wood,  if  we  want  him  for  a  wonder  story.  We  reached  the 
inn  :  there  was  disorder  both  within  and  without,  and  nothing 
in  its  right  place.  The  flies  had  manured  the  whitewashed 
walls  in  such  a  way  that  it  might  be  taken  for  painting :  the 
furniture  was  very  shaky,  and  so  thick  with  dust  that  it  was  as 
if  well  wrapped  in  coverings.  The  highway  at  the  farm  was  a 
real  dung-hill,  and  the  daughter  of  the  house  was  running  over 
it ;  she  was  young  and  well  formed,  white  and  red,  and  with 
bare  feet,  but  with  large  gold  rings  in  her  ears  ;  the  gold  glit- 
tered in  the  sunshine  toward  her  blooming  red  cheeks  ;  her  flax- 
colored  hair  was  untied  and  hung  down  her  beautiful  shoulders. 
If  she  had  been  aware  of  her  own  beauty,  she  would  certainly 
have  washed  herself! 

We  walked  along  the  road  and  saw  a  white  and  hospitable 
looking  house  —  quite  in  contrast  to  that  of  the  farm.  The 
door  stood  open,  and  a  young  mother  sat  and  wept  over  her 
dying  child  ;  a  small  boy  was  standing  by  her  side  ;  the  little 
one  looked  with  cunning  eyes  at  his  mother,  and  opened  the 
small  hands  in  which  he  hid  a  little  butterfly  he  had  caught 


234  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

and  brought  with  him  ;  and  the  butterfly  waved  over  the  little 
corpse.  The  mother  looked  at  it  and  smiled  \  she  understood 
certainly  the  poetry  of  the  accident. 

The  horses  were  put  to  the  coach  and  we  started  ;  picture 
after  picture  came  forth,  in  the  wood,  on  the  road,  and  in  the 
mind  —  pictures  ad  infinitum. 


XXVII. 

DANNEMORA. 

READER,  do  you  know  what  giddiness  is  ?  Pray  that 
she  may  not  seize  you,  this  miglity  "  Loreley  "  of  the 
heights,  this  evil  genius  from  the  land  of  the  sylphides  ;  she 
whizzes  around  her  prey,  and  whirls  it  into  the  abyss.  She 
sits  on  the  narrow  rocky  path,  close  by  the  steep  declivity, 
where  no  tree,  no  branch  is  found,  where  the  wanderer  must 
creep  close  to  the  side  of  the  rock,  and  look  steadily  forward. 
She  sits  on  the  church  spire  and  nods  to  the  plumber  who 
works  on  his  swaying  scaffold  ;  she  glides  into  the  illumined 
saloon,  and  up  to  the  nervous,  solitary  one  in  the  middle  of 
the  bright  polished  floor,  and  it  sways  under  him  —  the  walls 
vanish  from  hira. 

Her  fingers  touch  one  of  the  hairs  of  our  head,  and  we  feel 
as  if  the  air  had  left  us,  and  we  were  in  a  vacuum. 

We  met  with  her  at  Dannemora's  immense  gulf,  whither  we 
came  on  broad,  smooth,  excellent  high-roads,  through  the 
fresh  forest.  She  sat  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  rocky  wall, 
above  the  abyss,  and  kicked  at  the  tun  with  her  thin,  awl-like 
legs,  as  it  hung  in  iron  chains  on  large  beams,  from  the  tower- 
high  corner  of  the  bridge  by  the  precipice. 

The  traveller  raised  his  foot  over  the  abyss,  and  set  it  on 
the  tun,  into  which  one  of  the  workmen  received  him,  and 
held  him  ;  and  the  chains  rattled ;  the  pulleys  turned  ;  the 
tun  sank  slowly,  hovering  through  the  air.  But  he  felt  the 
descent  ;  he  felt  it  through  his  bones  and  marrow,  through  all 
the  nerves.  Her  icy  breath  blew  in  his  neck,  and  down  the 
spine,  and  the  air  itself  became  colder  and  colder.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  if  the  rocks  grew  over  his  head,  always  higher  and 
higher:  the  tun  made  a  slight  swinging,  but  he  felt  it,  like  a 
fall — a   fall  in  sleep,  that  shock  in  the  blood.      Did  it  go 


22,6  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 

quicker  downward,  or  was  it  going  up  again  ?     He  could  not 
distinguisii  by  the  sensation. 

The  tun  touched  the  ground,  or  rather  the  snow  —  the  dirty, 
trodden,  eternal  snow,  down  to  which  no  sunbeam  reaches, 
which  no  summer  warmth  from  above  ever  melts.  A  hollow 
sound  was  heard  from  within  the  dark,  yawning  cavern,  and  a 
thick  vapor  rolled  out  into  the  cold  air.  The  stranger  entered 
the  dark  halls  ;  there  seemed  to  be  a  crashing  above  him  :  the 
fire  burned ;  the  furnaces  roared ;  the  beating  of  hammers 
sounded  \  rhe  watery  damps  dripped  down  —  and  he  again 
entered  the  tun,  which  was  hoven  up  in  the  air.  He  sat  with 
closed  eyes,  but  giddiness  breathed  on  his  head  and  on  his 
breast ;  his  inwardly-turned  eye  measured  the  giddy  depth 
through  the  tun  :  "  It  is  appalling!"  said  he. 

"  Appalling  ! "  echoed  the  brave  and  estimable  stranger, 
whom  we  met  at  Dannemora's  great  gulf  He  was  a  man  from 
Scania,  consequently  from  the  same  street  as  the  Zealander 
—  if  the  Sound  be  called  a  street  (strait).  "  But,  however, 
one  can  say  one  has  been  down  there,"  said  he,  and  he  pointed 
to  the  gulf;  "right  down,  and  up  again  ;  but  it  is  no  pleasure 
at  all." 

"But  why  descend  at  all? "said  I.  "Why  will  men  do 
these  things  ? " 

"  One  must,  you  know,  when  one  comes  here,"  said  he. 
"  The  plague  of  travelling  is,  that  one  must  see  everything : 
one  would  not  have  it  supposed  otherwise.  It  is  a  shame  to  a 
man,  when  he  gets  home  again,  not  to  have  seen  everything 
that  others  ask  him  about." 

"  If  you  have  no  desire,  then  let  it  alone.  See  what  pleases 
you  on  your  travels.  Go  two  paces  nearer  than  where  you 
stand,  and  become  quite  giddy :  you  will  then  have  formed 
some  conception  of  the  passage  downward.  I  will  hold  you 
fast,  and  describe  the  rest  of  it  for  j'ou."  And  I  did  so,  and 
the  perspiration  sprang  from  his  forehead. 

"  Yes,  so  it  is  :  I  comprehend  it  all,"  said  he  :  "  I  am  clearly 
sensible  of  it." 

I  described  the  dirty  gray  snow  covering,  which  the  sun's 
warmth  never  thaws  ;  the  cold  down  there,  and  the  caverns, 
and  the  fire,  and  the  workmen,  etc. 


DANNEMORA. 


22>7 


"Yes;  one  should  be  able  to  tell  all  about  it,"  said  he. 
"  Thdit  yo7i  can,  for  you  have  seen  it." 

"  No  more  than  you,"  said  I.  "  I  came  to  the  gulf;  I  saw 
the  depth,  the  snow  below,  the  smoke  that  rolled  out  of  the 
caverns  ;  but  when  it  was  time  I  should  get  into  the  tun  —  no, 
thank  you.  Giddiness  tickled  me  with  her  long,  awl-like  legs, 
and  so  I  stayed  where  I  was.  I  have  felt  the  descent,  through 
the  spine  and  the  soles  of  the  feet,  and  that  as  well  as  any 
one  :  the  descent  is  the  pinch.  I  have  been  in  the  Hartz, 
under  Rammelsberg  ;  glided,  as  on  Russian  mountains,  at 
Hallein,  through  the  mountain,  from  the  top  down  to  the  salt- 
works ;  wandered  about  in  the  catacombs  of  Rome  and  Malta  : 
and  what  does  one  see  in  the  deep  passages  ?  Gloom  —  dark- 
ness !  What  does  one  feel .-'  Cold,  and  a  sense  of  oppression 
■ —  a  longing  for  air  and  light,  which  is  by  far  the  best ;  and 
that  we  have  now." 

"  But,  nevertheless,  it  is  so  very  remarkable  !  "  said  the  man  ; 
and  he  drew  forth  his  "  Handbook  for  Travellers  in  Sweden," 
from  which  he  read  >  "  Dannemora's  iron-works  are  the  oldest, 
largest,  and  richest  in  Sweden  ;  the  best  in  Europe.  They 
have  seventy-nine  openings,  of  which  seventeen  only  are  being 
worked.     The  machine  mine  is  ninety-three  fathoms  deep." 

Just  then  the  bells  sounded  from  below  :  it  was  the  signal 
that  the  time  of  labor  for  that  day  was  ended.  The  hue  of 
eve  still  shone  on  the  tops  of  the  trees  above  ;  but  down  in 
that  deep,  far-extended  gulf,  it  was  a  perfect  twilight.  Thence 
and  out  of  the  dark  caverns,  the  workmen  swarmed  forth. 
They  looked  like  flies,  quite  small  in  the  space  below :  they 
scrambled  up  the  long  ladders,  which  hung  from  the  steep 
sides  of  the  rocks,  in  separate  landing-places :  they  climbed 
higher  and  higher  —  upward,  upward  —  and  at  every  step 
they  became  larger.  The  iron  chains  creaked  in  the  scaf- 
folding of  beams,  and  three  or  four  young  fellows  stood  in 
their  wooden  shoes  on  the  edge  of  the  tun ;  chatted  away 
right  merrily,  and  kicked  with  their  feet  against  the  side  of 
the  rock,  so  that  they  swung  from  it :  and  it  became  darker 
and  darker  below ;  it  was  as  if  the  deep  abyss  became  still 
deeper ! 

"  It  is  appalling  !  "  said  the  man  from  Scania.     "  One  ought, 


2  38  PICTURES   OF  SWEDEN. 

however,  to  have  gone  down  there,  if  it  were  only  to  swear 
that  one  had  been.  You,  however,  have  certainly  been  down 
there,"  said  he  again  to  me. 

"  Believe  what  you  will,"  I  replied ;  and  I  say  the  same  to 
the  reader. 


XXVIII. 

THE    SWINE. 

THAT  capital  fellow,  Charles  Dickens,  has  told  us  about 
the  swine,  and  since  then  it  puts  us  into  a  good  humor 
whenever  we  hear  even  the  grunt  of  one.  St.  Anthony  has 
taken  them  under  his  patronage,  and  if  we  think  of  the 
"  prodigal  son,"  we  are  at  once  in  the  midst  of  the  sty,  and 
it  was  just  before  such  a  one  that  our  carriage  stopped  in 
Sweden.  By  the  high-road,  closely  adjoining  his  house,  the 
peasant  had  his  sty,  and  that  such  a  one  as  can  scarcely  be 
matched  in  the  world.  It  was  an  old  state-carriage ;  the 
seats  were  taken  out  of  it,  the  wheels  taken  off,  and  thus  it 
stood,  without  further  ceremony,  on  its  own  bottom,  and  four 
swine  were  shut  in  there.  If  these  were  the  first  that  had 
been  in  it  one  could  not  determine ;  but  that  it  was  once  a 
state-carriage  everything  about  it  bore  witness,  even  to  the 
strip  of  morocco  that  hung  from  the  roof  inside,  —  all  bore 
witness  of  better  days.     It  is  true,  every  word  of  it. 

"  Uff !  "  said  the  occupiers  within,  and  the  carriage  creaked 
and  complained  —  it  was  a  sorrowful  end  it  had  come  to. 

"  The  beautiful  is  past ! "  so  it  sighed  ;  so  it  said,  or  it 
might  have  said  so. 

We  returned  here  in  the  autumn.  The  carriage,  or  rather 
the  body  of  the  carriage,  stood  in  its  old  place,  but  the  swine 
were  gone :  they  were  lords  in  the  forests  ;  rain  and  drizzle 
rei'gned  there  ;  the  wind  tore  the  leaves  off  all  the  trees,  and 
allowed  them  neither  rest  nor  quiet :  the  birds  of  passage 
were  gone. 

"  The  beautiful  is  past !  "  said  the  carriage,  and  the  same 
sigh  passed  through  the  whole  of  nature,  and  from  the  human 
heart  it  sounded  :  "  The  beautiful  is  past !  with  the  delightful 
green  forest,  with  the  warm  sunshine,  and  the  song  of  birds 


240  PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN: 

—  past !  past !  "  So  it  said,  and  so  it  creaked  in  the  trunks 
of  the  tall  trees,  and  there  was  heard  a  sigh,  so  inwardly  deep, 
a  sigh  direct  from  the  heart  of  the  wild  rose  bush,  and  he  who 
sat  there  was  the  rose  king.  Do  you  know  him  !  he  is  of  a 
pure  breed,  the  finest  red-green  breed :  he  is  easily  known. 
Go  to  the  wild  rose  hedges,  and  in  autumn,  when  all  the  flow- 
ers are  gone,  and  the  red  hips  alone  remain,  one  often  sees 
amongst  these  a  large  red-green  moss-flower  :  that  is  the  rose 
king.  A  little  green  leaf  grows  out  of  his  head  —  that  is  his 
feather  :  he  is  the  only  male  person  of  his  kind  on  the  rose 
bush,  and  he  it  was  who  sighed. 

"  Past !  past !  the  beautiful  is  past !  The  roses  are  gone  j 
the  leaves  of  the  trees  fall  off"!  —  it  is  wet  here,  and  it  is  cold 
and  raw  !  The  birds  that  sang  here  are  now  silent ;  the 
swine  live  on  acorns  :  the  swine  are  lords  in  the  forest ! " 

They  were  cold  nights,  they  were  gloomy  days  ;  but  the 
raven  sat  on  the  bough  and  croaked  nevertheless  :  "  Brah, 
brah  !  "  The  raven  and  the  crow  sat  on  the  topmost  bough  : 
they  have  large  families,  and  they  all  said  :  "  Brah,  brah  !  caw, 
caw  !  "  and  the  majority  is  always  right. 

There  was  a  great  miry  pool  under  the  tall  trees  in  the  hol- 
low, and  here  lay  the  whole  herd  of  swine,  great  and  small 

—  they  found  the  place  so  excellent.  "  Oui !  oui !  "  said  they, 
for  they  knew  no  more  French,  but  that,  however,  was  some- 
thing. They  were  so  wise,  and  so  fat,  and  altogether  lords  in 
the  forest. 

The  old  ones  lay  still,  for  they  thought :  the  young  ones, 
on  the  contrary,  were  so  brisk  —  busy,  but  apparently  uneasy. 
One  little  pig  had  a  curly  tail  —  that  curl  was  the  mother's 
delight.  She  thought  that  they  all  looked  at  the  curl,  and 
thought  only  of  the  curl ;  but  that  they  did  not.  They  thought 
of  themselves,  and  of  what  was  useful,  and  of  what  the  forest 
was  for.  They  had  always  heard  that  the  acorns  they  ate 
grew  on  the  roots  of  the  trees,  and  therefore  they  had  always 
rooted  there ;  but  now  there  came  a  little  one  —  for  it  is 
always  the  young  ones  that  come  with  news  —  and  he  asserted 
that  the  acorns  fell  down  from  the  branches  ;  he  himself  had 
felt  one  fall  right  on  his  head,  and  that  had  given  him  the 
idea,  so  he  had  made  observations,  and  now  he  was  quite  sure 


THE  SWINE. 


241 


of  what  he  asserted.  The  old  ones  laid  their  heads  together. 
"  Uff !  "  said  the  swine,  "  uff !  the  finery  is  past !  the  twittering 
of  the  birds  is  past !  we  will  have  fruit !  whatever  can  be 
eaten  is  good,  and  we  eat  everything ! " 

"  Oui !  oui !  "  said  they  all  together. 

But  the  mother  sow  looked  at  her  little  pig  with  the  curly 
tail. 

"  One  must  not,  however,  forget  the  beautiful !  "  said  she. 

"  Caw !  caw  !  "  screamed  the  crow,  and  flew  down,  in  order 
to  be  appointed  nightingale  \  one  there  should  be  —  and  so 
the  crow  was  directly  appointed. 

"  Past  1  past !  "  sighed  the  rose  king ;  "  all  the  beautiful  is 
past ! " 

It  was  wet ;  it  was  gloomy  ;  there  was  cold  and  wind,  and 
the  rain  pelted  down  over  the  fields,  and  through  the  forest, 
like  long  water  jets.  Where  are  the  birds  that  sang .?  where 
are  the  flowers  in  the  meadows,  and  the  sweet  berries  in  the 
wood?  —  past!  past! 

A  light  shone  from  the  forester's  house :  it  twinkled  like  a 
star,  and  shed  its  long  rays  out  between  the  trees.  A  song 
was  heard  from  within  ;  pretty  children  played  around  their 
old  grandfather,  who  sat  with  the  Bible  on  his  lap  and  read 
about  God,  and  eternal  life,  and  spoke  of  the  spring  that  would 
come  again  ;  he  spoke  of  the  forest  that  would  renew  its 
green  leaves,  of  the  roses  that  would  flower,  of  the  nightin- 
gales that  would  sing,  and  of  the  beautiful  that  would  again 
be  paramount. 

But  the  rose  king  did  not  hear  it :  he  sat  in  the  raw,  cold 
weather,  and  sighed  : 

"  Past !  past !  " 

And  the  swine  were  lords  in  the  forest,  and  the  mother  sow 
looked  at  her  little  pig,  and  his  curly  tail. 

"  There  will  always  be  some,  who  have  a  sense  for  the  beau- 
tiful I  "  said  the  mother  sow. 
16 


XXIX. 

poetry's   CALIFORNIA, 

NATURE'S  treasures  are  most  often  unveiled  to  us  by 
accident.  A  dog's  nose  was  dyed  by  the  bruised  pur- 
ple fish,  and  the  genuine  purple  dye  was  discovered ;  a  pair 
of  wild  buffaloes  were  fighting  on  America's  auriferous  soil, 
and  their  horns  tore  up  the  greensward  that  covered  the  rich 
gold  vein. 

"  In  former  days,"  as  it  is  said  by  most,  "  everything  came 
spontaneously.  Our  age  has  not  such  revelations  ;  now  one 
must  slave  and  drudge  if  one  would  get  anything  ;  one  must 
dig  down  into  the  deep  shafts  after  the  metals,  which  decrease 
more  and  more  :  when  the  earth  suddenly  stretches  forth 
her  golden  finger  from  California's  peninsula,  and  we  there 
see  Monte  Cristo's  foolishly  invented  riches  realized ;  we  see 
Aladdin's  cave  with  its  inestimable  treasures.  The  world's 
treasury  is  so  endlessly  rich  that  we  have,  to  speak  plain  and 
straightforward,  scraped  a  little  off  the  up-heaped  measure  ; 
but  the  bushel  is  still  full,  the  whole  of  the  real  measure  is 
now  refilled.  In  science  also,  such  a  world  lies  open  for  the 
discoveries  of  the  human  mind  ! 

"  But  in  poetry,  the  greatest  and  most  glorious  is  already 
found,  and  gained !  "  says  the  poet.  "  Happy  he  who  was 
born  in  former  times ;  there  was  then  many  a  land  still  undis- 
covered, on  which  poetry's  rich  gold  lay  like  the  ore  that  shines 
forth  from  the  earth's  surface." 

Do  not  speak  so !  happy  poet  thou,  who  art  born  in  our 
time !  thou  dost  inherit  all  the  glorious  treasures  which  thy 
predecessors  gave  to  the  world  ;  thou  dost  learn  from  them 
that  truth  only  is  eternal,  —  the  true  in  nature  and  mankind. 

Our  time  is  the  time  of  discoveries  —  poetry  also  has  its 
new  California. 


POETRY'S  CALIFORNIA.  243 

"Where  does  it  exist?"  you  ask. 

The  coast  is  so  near,  that  you  do  not  think  that  there  is  the 
new  world.  Like  the  bold  Leander,  swim  with  me  across  the 
stream :  the  black  words  on  the  white  paper  will  waft  you  — 
every  period  is  a  heave  of  the  waves. 

It  was  in  the  library's  saloon.  Book-shelves  with  many 
books,  old  and  new,  were  ranged  around  for  every  one  ;  manu- 
scripts lay  there  in  heaps ;  there  were  also  maps  and  globes. 
There  sat  industrious  men  at  little  tables,  and  wrote  out  and 
wrote  in,  and  that  was  no  easy  work.  But  suddenly,  a  great 
transformation  took  place  ;  the  shelves  became  terraces  for 
the  noblest  trees,  with  flowers  and  fruit  ;  heavy  clusters  of 
grapes  hung  amongst  leafy  vines,  and  there  was  life  and  move- 
ment all  around. 

The  old  folios  and  dusty  manuscripts  rose  into  flower- 
covered  tumuli,  and  there  sprang  forth  knights  in  mail,  and 
kings  with  golden  crowns  on,  and  there  was  the  clang  of  harp 
and  shield  ;  history  acquired  the  life  and  fullness  of  poetry  — 
for  a  poet  had  entered  there.  He  saw  the  living  visions; 
breathed  the  flowers'  fragrance ;  crushed  the  grapes,  and 
drank  the  sacred  juice.  But  he  himself  knew  not  yet  that 
he  was  a  poet  —  the  bearer  of  light  for  times  and  generations 
yet  to  come. 

It  was  in  the  fresh,  fragrant  forest,  in  the  last  hour  of  leave- 
taking.  Love's  kiss,  as  the  farewell,  was  the  initiatory  bap- 
tism for  the  future  poetic  life  \  and  the  fresh  fragrance  of  the 
forest  became  sweeter,  the  chirping  of  the  birds  more  melo- 
dious :  there  came  sunlight  and  cooling  breezes.  Nature  be- 
comes doubly  delightful  where  a  poet  walks. 

And  as  there  were  two  roads  before  Hercules,  so  there  were 
before  him  two  roads,  shown  by  two  figures,  in  order  to  serve 
him ;  the  one  an  old  crone,  the  other  a  youth,  beautiful  as  the 
angel  that  led  the  young  Tobias. 

The  old  crone  had  on  a  mande,  on  which  were  wrought 
flowers,  animals,  and  human  beings,  entwined  in  an  arabesque 
manner.  She  had  large  spectacles  on,  and  beside  her  lantern 
she  held  a  bag  filled  with  old  gilt  cards  —  apparatus  for  witch- 
craft, and  all  the    amulets  of   superstition  :  .  leaning    on  her 


244  PICTURES  OF  S  WE  DE  .V. 

crutch,  wrinkled  and    shivering,  she  was,  however,    soaring, 
like  the  mist  over  the  meadow. 

"  Come  with  me,  and  you  shall  see  the  world,  so  that  a  poet 
can  have  benefit  from  it,"  said  she.  "  I  will  light  my  lantern  ; 
it  is  better  than  that  which  Diogenes  bore  ;  I  shall  lighten 
your  path." 

And  the  light  shone  ;  the  old  crone  lifted  her  head,  and 
stood  there  strong  and  tall,  a  powerful  female  figure.  She 
was  Superstition. 

"  I  am  the  sti^ongest  in  the  region  of  romance,"  said  she, 
—  and  she  herself  believed  it. 

And  the  lantern's  light  gave  the  lustre  of  the  full  moon  over 
the  whole  earth ;  yes,  the  earth  itself  became  transparent,  as 
the  still  waters  of  the  deep  sea,  or  the  glass  mountains  in  the 
fairy  tale. 

"  My  kingdom  is  thine  !  sing  what  thou  seest ;  sing  as  if 
no  bard  before  thee  had  sung  thereof" 

And  it  was  as  if  the  scene  continually  changed.  Splendid 
Gothic  churches,  with  painted  images  in  the  panes,  glided 
past,  and  the  midnight  bell  struck,  and  the  dead  arose  from 
the  graves.  There,  under  the  bending  elder-tree,  sat  the 
mother  and  swathed  her  newly  born  child  ;  old,  sunken  knights' 
castles  rose  again  from  the  marshy  ground  ;  the  draw-bridge 
fell,  and  they  saw  into  the  empty  halls,  adorned  with  images, 
where,  under  the  gloomy  stairs  of  the  gallery,  the  death-pro- 
claiming white  woman  came  with  a  rattling  bunch  of  keys. 
The  basilisk  brooded  in  the  deep  cellar;  the  monster  bred 
from  a  cock's  egg,  invulnerable  by  every  weapon,  but  not  from 
the  sight  of  its  own  horrible  form :  at  the  sight  of  its  own 
image,  it  bursts  like  the  steel  that  one  breaks  with  the  blow 
of  a  stout  staff.  And  to  everything  that  appeared,  from  the 
golden  chalice  of  the  altar-table,  once  the  drinking-cup  of 
evil  spirits,  to  the  nodding  head  on  the  gallows-hill,  the  old 
crone  hummed  her  songs ;  and  the  crickets  chirped,  and  the 
raven  croaked  from  the  opposite  neighbor's  house,  and  the 
winding-sheet  rolled  from  the  candle.  Through  the  whole 
spectral  world  sounded,  "  Death !  death  ! " 

"  Go  with  me  to  life  and  truth,"  cried  the  second  form,  the 
youth  who  was  beautiful  as  a  cherub.     A  flame  shone  from 


POETRY'S  CALIFORNIA. 


245 


his  brow  —  a  cherub's  sword  glittered  in  his  hand.     "1  am 
Knowledge,"  said  he  :  "  my  world  is  greater  —  its  aim  is  truth." 

And  there  was  a  brightness  all  around  ;  the  spectral  images 
paled;  it  did  not  extend  over  the  world  they  had  seen.  Super- 
stition's lantern  had  only  exhibited  magic-lantern  images  on 
the  old  ruined  wall,  and  the  wind  had  driven  wet  misty  va- 
pors past  in  figures. 

"  I  will  give  thee  a  rich  recompense.  Truth  in  the  created 
—  truth  in  God  !  " 

And  through  the  stagnant  lake,  where  before  the  misty  spec- 
tral figures  rose,  whilst  the  bells  sounded  firom  the  sunken 
castle,  the  light  fell  down  on  a  swaying  vegetable  world.  One 
drop  of  the  marsh  water,  raised  against  the  rays  of  light,  be- 
came a  living  world,  with  creatures  in  strange  forms,  fighting 
and  reveling  —  a  world  in  a  drop  of  water.  And  the  sharp 
sword  of  Knowledge  cleft  the  deep  vault,  and  shone  therein, 
where  the  basilisk  glared,  and  the  animal's  body  was  dissolved 
in  a  death-bringing  vapor :  its  claw  extended  from  the  fer- 
menting wine-cask  ;  its  eyes  were  air,  that  burnt  when  the 
fresh  wind  touched  it. 

And  there  resided  a  powerful  force  in  the  sword  ;  so  power- 
ful, that  a  grain  of  gold  was  beaten  to  a  flat  surface,  thin  as 
the  covering  of  mist  that  we  breathe  on  the  glass  pane ;  and 
it  shone  at  the  sword's  point,  so  that  the  thin  threads  of  the 
cobweb  seemed  to  swell  to  cables,  for  one  saw  the  strong  twist- 
ings  of  numberless  small  threads.  And  the  voice  of  Knowledge 
seemed  heard  over  the  whole  world,  so  that  the  age  of  mira- 
cles appeared  to  have  returned.  Thin  iron  ties  were  laid  over 
the  earth,  and  along  these  the  heavily-laden  wagons  flew  on 
the  wings  of  steam,  with  the  swallow's  flight ;  mountains  were 
compelled  to  open  themselves  to  the  inquiring  spirit  of  the 
age  ;  the  plains  were  obliged  to  raise  themselves  ;  and  then 
thought  was  borne  in  words,  through  metal  wires,  with  the 
lightning's  speed,  to  distant  towns.  "  Life  !  life  !  "  it  sounded 
through  the  whole  of  nature.  "  It  is  our  time  !  Poet,  thou 
^ost  possess  it !     Sing  of  it  in  spirit  and  in  truth  !  " 

And  the  genius  of  Knowledge  raised  the  shining  sword  ; 
he  raised  it  far  out  into  space,  and  then  —  what  a  sight !  It 
was  as  when  the  sunbeams  shine  through  a  crevice  in  the  wall 


246 


PICTURES  OF  SWEDEN. 


in  a  dark  space,  and  appear  to  us  a  revolving  column  of  myr- 
iads of  grains  of  dust  \  but  every  grain  of  dust  here  was  a 
world  !     The  sight  he  saw  was  our  starry  firmament ! 

Thy  earth  is  a  grain  of  dust  here,  but  a  speck  whose  won- 
ders astonish  thee  ;  only  a  grain  of  dust,  and  yet  a  star  under 
stars.  That  long  column  of  worlds  thou  callest  thy  starry  fir- 
mament, revolves  like  myriads  of  grains  of  dust,  visibly  hover- 
ing in  the  sunbeam's  revolving  column  from  the  crevice  in  the 
wall  into  that  dark  space.  But  still  more  distant  stands  the 
milky  way's  whitish  mist,  a  new  starry  heaven,  each  column 
but  a  radius  in  the  wheel !  But  how  great  is  this  itself !  how 
many  radii  thus  go  out  from  the  central  point  —  God. 

So  far  does  thine  eye  reach,  so  clear  is  thine  age's  horizon  ! 
Son  of  time,  choose,  who  shall  be  thy  companion  ?  Here  is 
thy  new  career !  with  the  greatest  of  thy  time,  fly  thou  before 
thy  time's  generation  !  Like  twinkling  Lucifer,  shine  thou  in 
time's  roseate  morn. 

Yes,  in  knowledge  lies  Poetry's  California  !  Every  one  who 
only  looks  backwai'd,  and  not  clearly  forward,  will,  however 
high  and  honorably  he  stands,  say  that  if  such  riches  lie  in 
knowledge,  they  would  long  since  have  been  made  available 
by  great  and  immortal  bards,  who  had  a  clear  and  sagacious 
eye  for  the  discovery  of  truth.  But  let  us  remember  that  when 
Thespis  spoke  from  his  car,  the  world  had  also  wise  men. 
Homer  had  sung  his  immortal  songs,  and  yet  a  new  form  of 
genius  appeared,  to  which  a  Sophocles  and  Aristophanes  gave 
birth  ;  the  Sagas  and  mythology  of  the  North  were  as  an  un- 
known treasure  to  the  stage,  until  Oehlenschlager  showed 
what  mighty  forms  from  thence  might  be  made  to  glide  past 
us. 

It  is  not  our  intention  that  the  poet  shall  versify  scientific 
discoveries.  The  didactic  poem  is  and  will  be,  in  its  best  form, 
always  but  a  piece  of  mechanism,  or  wooden  figure,  which  has 
not  the  true  life.  The  sunlight  of  science  must  penetrate  the 
poet ;  he  must  perceive  truth  and  harmony  in  the  minute  and 
in  the  immensely  great  with  a  clear  eye  :  it  must  purify  and 
enrich  the  understanding  and  imagination,  and  show  him  new 
forms  which  will  supply  to  him  more  animated  words.     Even 


POETRY'S  CALIFORNIA. 


247 


single  discoveries  will  furnish  a  new  flight.  What  fairy  tales 
cannot  the  world  unfold  under  the  microscope,  if  we  transfer 
our  human  world  thereto  ?  Electro-magnetism  can  present  or 
suggest  new  plots  in  new  comedies  and  romances  ;  and  how 
many  humorous  compositions  will  not  spring  forth,  as  we  from 
our  grain  of  dust,  our  little  earth,  with  its  little  haughty  beings, 
look  out  into  that  endless  world's  universe,  from  milky  way 
to  milky  way  ?  An  instance  of  what  we  here  mean  is  dis- 
coverable in  that  old  noble  lady's  words :  "  If  every  star  be  a 
globe  like  our  earth,  and  have  its  kingdoms  and  courts  —  what 
an  endless  number  of  courts  —  the  contemplation  is  enough 
to  make  mankind  giddy  !  " 

We  will  not  say,  like  that  French  authoress,  "  Now,  then, 
let  me  die :  the  world  has  no  more  discoveries  to  make  ! " 
O,  there  is  so  endlessly  much  in  the  sea,  in  the  air,  and  on 
the  earth  —  wonders,  which  science  will  bring  forth  !  —  won- 
ders, greater  than  the  poet's  philosophy  can  create  !  A  bard 
will  come,  who,  with  a  child's  mind,  like  a  new  Aladdin,  will 
enter  the  cavern  of  science,  —  with  a  child's  mind,  we  say, 
or  else  the  puissant  spirits  of  natural  strength  would  seize  him, 
and  make  him  their  servant ;  whilst  he,  with  the  lamp  of  poetry, 
which  is,  and  always  will  be,  the  human  heart,  stands  as  a  ruler, 
and  brings  forth  wonderful  fruits  from  the  gloomy  passages, 
and  has  strength  to  build  poetry's  new  palace,  created  in  one 
night  by  attendant  spirits. 

In  the  world  itself  events  repeat  themselves  ;  the  human 
character  was  and  will  be  the  same  during  long  ages  and  all 
ages  ;  and  as  they  were  in  the  old  writings,  they  must  be 
in  the  new.  But  science  always  unfolds  something  new  ;  light 
and  truth  are  in  everything  that  is  created  —  beam  out  from 
hence  with  eternally  divine  clearness.  Mighty  image  of  God, 
do  thou  illumine  and  enlighten  mankind  ;  and  when  its  in- 
tellectual eye  is  accustomed  to  the  lustre,  the  new  Aladdin 
will  come,  and  thou,  man,  shalt  with  him,  who  concisely  clear 
and  richly  sings  the  beauty  of  truth,  wander  through  Poetry's 
California. 


IN   SWITZERLAND. 


IN   SWITZERLAND. 


RAGATZ. 

BY  rail  and  by  steamboat  we  fly  through  Switzerland  also, 
now,  and  gain  thereby  —  time  to  linger  about  the  most 
notable  and  most  interesting  places  :  one  of  these,  most  assur- 
edly, is  Ragatz,  with  Pfaffer's  Baths.  From  Rorschach,  by  the 
Boden  Lake,  one  reaches  the  place  by  rail  in  a  few  hours :  a 
longer  way,  but  one  quite  as  convenient  and  with  the  entire 
variety  of  Swiss  scenery,  is  open  to  the  traveller  who  will  take 
the  course  from  Schaffhausen  through  Zurich  to  Ragatz,  which 
the  Rhine  formerly  followed  before  it  forced  its  present  chan- 
nel into  the  Boden  Lake. 

Here,  over  the  mighty  fall  of  the  Rhine,  which  showers  us 
with  its  rain-dust,  there  is  built  a  substantial  bridge,  and  the 
train  of  cars  flies  across  it  and  plunges  into  the  pitch  dark  tun- 
nel which  undermines  the  castle  of  Lauf.  At  Olten,  we  travel 
through  the  solid  ridge  of  the  Jura  Mountains.  The  minutes 
seem  long  drawn  out  that  are  passed  in  that  uncanny,  inter- 
minable vault,  where  so  many  ill-fated  workmen  met  their 
death  at  the  falling  in  of  the  tunnel.  The  shining  lights  of  the 
train  throw  a  gleam  on  the  gray  blocks  of  stone,  which  the 
oozing  water  drips  over,  warning  us  that  the  spirit  of  nature 
here  steadily  fights  against  the  might  of  human  will.  The 
country  about  now  rolls  before  us  in  luxurious  fields,  and  the 
blue  Alps,  clad  with  snow  and  glaciers,  rise  before  us  as  we 
approach  Zurich.  Villages  and  towns  gleam  out  of  the  wealth 
of  green  that  lies  by  the  banks  of  the  smiling,  enticing  lake. 
Steamboats  glide  back  and  forth,  and  on  one  of  these  we  pass 
over  the  wide,  outstretched  sheet  of  water,  and  through  the 


252 


IN  SWITZERLAND. 


Linth  Canal  come  out  at  VVallen  Lake,  which  is  called  the 
wildest,  most  weird,  and  exciting  of  the  Swiss  lakes  On  its 
northern  side  there  rise  sheer  from  the  lake  black  rocks  with 
strange  jagged  peaks  ;  when  the  storm  coming  over  them  hurls 
itself  down  on  the  lake,  boat  and  sailing  vessel  are  gulped 
down  by  the  devouring  waves,  and  only  the  steamboat  can 
hold  its  own  in  such  a  storm. 

Crossing  the  lake  one  soon  comes  to  the  eastern  bank,  where 
Sargans  Valley  opens,  through  which  the  Rhine  by  great 
freshets,  especially  that  of  1618,  has  threatened  to  break 
away  from  its  ancient  course  and  take  a  new  direction  out  into 
the  Wallen  and  Zurich  lakes.  From  Sargans,  the  railway 
takes  us  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  Ragatz.  In  St.  Gall,  by 
the  broad,  open  Rhine  Valley,  close  under  the  wood-covered 
heights,  lies  the  little  picturesque  Swiss  town.  The  houses, 
for  the  most  part,  are  of  timber,  and  have  broad  windows  in 
front  and  wide-spreading  balconies  ;  white  walls  inclosing  green 
vineyards.  The  road  leads  past  the  church-yard,  above  the  low 
stones  in  which  rises  a  monument  ;  familiar  features  graven 
in  marble  welcome  us,  for  here  rests  the  thinker,  the  philoso- 
pher Schelling. 

We  arrived  at  sunset;  the  people  sat  in  knots  outside  of  their 
houses,  and  a  ruddy  sunlight  illumined  the  mountains,  —  the 
nearest  decked  with  their  splendid  covering  of  velvety  green 
fields,  embroidered  with  pine  and  leafy  groves  \  the  houses 
high  up  showing  like  Alpen  roses  in  the  green,  while  waterfalls 
gleamed  like  narrow  ribbons  of  silver.  Castle  ruins  stood  out 
boldl)',  and  the  distant  mountains  were  like  clouds  in  the  pale 
atmosphere,  and  the  snowy  tops  shone  as  if  afire.  In  amongst 
a  row  of  water-mills  the  elder  bushes  hung  picturesquely  over 
the  Tamina  River,  which  tumbled  milk-white  over  the  black 
quartz  stone  blocks,  hurrying  on  to  mingle  with  the  green 
waters  of  the  Rhine. 

A  large,  elegant-looking  hotel  stands  like  a  showy  crinoline- 
dressed  lady  in  the  midst  of  all  this  romantic  scenery ;  one 
passes  by  it  and  comes  to  a  still  bigger  one,  which  stretches 
out  so  as  to  take  up  a  whole  street.  It  is  the  most  frequented 
and  the  best  appointed  hotel,  as  large  as  one  of  those  which 
we  hear  of  in  America.     In  one  wing  there  is  built  a  chapel 


RAGATZ. 


253 


for  the  church-going  English ;  and  in  the  opposite  corner  there 
is  a  theatre  opening  upon  the  garden,  where  there  is  playing 
every  other  evening  during  the  bathing  season.  While  several 
days  before,  in  Weber's  great  and  frequented  hotel  at  the  Falls 
of  the  Rhine,  there  had  been  only  three  guests  at  the  dinner 
table,  here  we  found  several  hundred.  The  orchestra  gave  us 
music  from  the  opposite  poles  of  musical  art,  —  from  Wagner 
and  Bellini,  Beethoven  and  Strauss.  In  the  café,  as  also  in  front 
of  the  hotel,  and  in  the  garden,  there  was  a  life,  a  bustle,  a  stir- 
ring ;  and  then,  not  more  than  three  hundred  steps  away,  one 
stood  again  in  the  midst  of  great  lonely  nature,  in  face  of  the 
wild  cleft  where  the  Tamina  has  forced  its  way,  and  now,  as  it 
plunges  into  the  open  valley,  makes  a  mighty  waterfall  almost 
the  width  of  the  entire  ravine.  A  long  wooden  gallery  nailed 
fast  in  the  steep,  rocky  way,  leads  from  the  path  to  the  water- 
fall, and  by  a  light,  slender  bridge  one  crosses  to  the  opposite 
side,  where  now  a  narrow  path,  forced  through  the  rocks, 
takes  one  to  Pfaffer's  Baths. 

The  chronicle  records  that  in  the  year  1038  there  came  here 
by  the  trackless  heights,  a  hunter  in  quest  of  a  raven's  nest. 
As  he  climbed  up  he  was  aware  of  a  thick  steam  which  arose 
from  the  rocky  fissure,  while  far  below  he  heard  the  roaring  of 
a  stream,  and  from  its  springs  of  boiling  water  it  was  that  the 
steam  arose. 

It  was  soon  learned  in  the  country  about  how  much  health- 
giving  property  there  was  in  it.  The  rich  flocked  hither,  and 
all  the  needy  made  their  way  down  to  the  horrible  abyss,  where 
at  that  time  there  was  no  other  shelter  than  that  afforded  by 
the  rocks  themselves ;  afterward  a  few  wooden  shanties  were 
fashioned,  hanging  over  the  rushing  stream.  Here,  where  day- 
light gave  only  a  dim  glimmering,  shut  out  from  the  world,  the 
sick  would  stay  for  days  and  weeks,  alone,  shut  up  to  them- 
selves and  the  virtue  of  the  water. 

The  monks  in  the  convent  upon  the  mountain  built,  two 
hundred  years  ago,  a  great  solid  building  down  in  the  ravine 
where  the  rocks  meet.  The  path  to  it  leads  by  the  precipitous 
rocks,  and  many  sick  people  were  obliged  to  be  lowered  by 
ropes.  It  is  only  in  our  time  that  it  has  become  easy  and 
convenient  of  access.     In  the  year  1839,  they  blasted  a  road 


254  ^^^  SWITZERLAND. 

from  Ragatz  to  Pfaffer's  Baths,  so  broad  that  a  little  wagon 
drawn  by  one  horse  can  make  the  trip  there  in  three  quarters 
of  an  hour.  During  the  bathing  period  the  place  is  crowded 
with  sick,  lodging  here,  while  still  the  greater  part  of  the  guests 
prefer  to  dwell  in  the  lively  large  hotel  at  Ragatz.  Two  ways 
lead  from  that :  one,  most  frequented,  broad  and  commodious, 
goes  by  zigzag  up  the  wooded  hill-side,  past  the  ruins  of  War- 
tenstein,  where  princely  abbots  and  noble  monks  once  led  a  very 
worldly  life  ;  by  this  way  we  come  opposite  the  old  monastery 
St.  Pirminsberg,  now  an  insane  asylum.  The  other  road  leads, 
after  a  few  steps  from  the  garden  of  the  hotel,  to  the  fissure, 
where  one  goes  by  the  hanging  gallery  and  the  little  bridge  at 
the  waterfall  till  he  comes  to  the  path  hewn  out  of  the  rocks. 

As  one  reads  in  fairy  tales  that  the  mountain  opens  and 
offers  a  passage  through,  so  one  here  sees  it  in  reality.  The 
mountain  is  rent  and  remains  so,  offering  a  bed  for  the  brawl- 
ing stream  that  twists  and  turns  by  the  newly  opened  w^ay.  To 
the  left  rise  precipitous  rocks,  far,  far  above  ;  one  almost  falls 
over  backward,  as  he  looks  up  to  the  highest  point  fringed 
with  pine-trees.  Close  by  us,  on  the  right,  is  a  gentler  and 
more  varied  scene,  where  one  comes  to  fresh  greensward  and 
flowery  field  beneath  beech  and  chestnut-trees,  and  anon  to 
narrow  passes  between  naked  cliffs  which  the  water  drips  over, 
or  one  goes  through  arches  blasted  out  of  the  hard  rock.  At 
last  one  stands  before  the  entrance  to  a  monastic  building,  — 
it  is  Pfaffer's  Baths,  which  looks  as  if  it  had  been  swallowed 
here  by  an  earthquake  and  squeezed  in  between  the  perpendic- 
ular rocks,  occupying  the  w'hole  width  of  the  cleft.  We  enter 
a  long  vaulted,  low-studded  hall.  The  kitchen,  the  eating 
room,  and  the  cell-like  chambers  open  upon  it.  The  sun's 
rays  penetrate  here  only  in  the  middle  of  summer :  in  August, 
there  is  sunshine  only  from  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning 
until  three  in  the  afternoon. 

Visitors  procure  tickets  of  admission  to  the  springs  at  the 
entrance  hall,  and  a  guide  conducts  them  thither.  We  met 
many  sick  people  in  the  long  close  passages,  from  which  we 
emerged  into  a  more  airy  large  hall,  —  the  drinking  hall,  where 
the  hot  water  is  conducted  from  the  spring  that  gushes  out 
of  the  rock  farther  in  :  it  is  clear,  without  any  disagreeable 
taste,  and  is  spoken  of  as  quite  invigorating. 


RAGATZ. 


255 


The  oppressiveness  one  has  felt  all  the  long,  winding  way 
from  Ragatz,  at  the  ice-cold  air  which  the  sun  has  no  power 
to  warm,  at  the  unceasing  war  of  the  stream,  and  at  the 
thought  of  the  possibility  of  the  least  stable  rocks  rolling  down 
and  crushing  us,  horse  and  wagon,  seems  at  its  height  here  in 
the  heavy,  close  air  of  the  building.  One  feels  the  need  of 
getting  at  once  out  into  the  fresh  air  and  drawing  a  long  breath. 
The  door  of  the  drinking  hall  is  opened,  and  we  step  out,  feel- 
ing, if  possible,  still  more  oppressed,  as  we  stand  just  before 
an  abyss  which  yawns  fearfully  and  is  lost  in  pitchy  darkness, 
as  if  it  were  the  very  entrance  to  the  nether  world.  One  stands 
upon  a  bridge,  suspended  over  the  rushing,  seething  flood  ; 
to  the  left,  but  only  three  or  four  steps,  is  solid  ground  ;  farther 
on,  one  has  only  a  layer  of  beams  spiked  into  the  rocky  way 
that  leads  into  the  yawning  abyss.  The  mountain-high  rocks 
meet  and  close,  and  our  way  continues  still  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  more  before  we  reach  the  bubbling  jets  of  the  spring. 
The  layer  of  beams  is  broad  enough  for  two  men  to  walk  side 
by  side,  but  hard  by,  above  us,  slope  the  wet  blackened  masses 
of  rock  ;  to  the  right,  the  rocky  wall  rises  perpendicularly 
from  the  stream  which  rushes  on  in  a  wild,  thundering  chase. 
A  single  tree-trunk  is  nailed  fast  for  a  sort  of  bulwark,  but 
below  this,  down  to  the  wet,  slippery  beams  on  which  we  walk, 
there  is  nothing,  should  one  fall,  by  which  he  could  catch  to 
prevent  himself  from  being  plunged  below.  The  eyes,  which 
at  first  look  down  for  a  foothold,  find  no  resting  place,  nothing 
to  stop  at,  —  the  flood  rushes  on  as  if  shot  out  of  a  cannon  : 
it  seems  to  one  as  if  the  whole  ground  below  was  on  a  wild 
chase.  Near  the  heavy  rocks,  high  up  the  cleft,  is  an  open- 
ing, looking  to  the  eye  like  a  mere  scratch  ;  there  shines  the 
blue  sky ;  there  waves  the  green  that  tells  of  life  in  the  upper 
world :  a  footpath  leads  up  there. 

A  quarter  of  the  way,  in  the  wet  wooden  gallery,  is  a  long, 
uncomfortable  time ;  the  moving  water  rushes  wilder  and 
more  noisily,  and  one  is  in  twilight  in  the  middle  of  a  sunshiny 
day.  The  duskiness,  the  shut-in  sensation,  between  these 
great  rocks,  the  steaming  flood  beneath,  here  overpower  the 
strongest.  But  we  do  not  belong  to  that  class,  and  already, 
when  half  through  our  course,  perceived  the  singular  dullness 


256 


IN  SWITZERLAND. 


which  takes  hold  of  the  giddy  and  nervous.  But  the  will  is  a 
sturdy  guide,  and  if  one  has,  besides,  a  strong  conductor  to 
lean  upon,  one  gets  along  very  well,  — so  most  think,  and  so 
thought  we.  But  as  the  darkness  increased,  and  the  stream 
roared  and  boiled  with  deafening  sound,  nature's  power  quite 
overwhelmed  us.  Our  feet  trembled,  drops  of  perspiration 
oozed  from  every  pore.  It  helped,  however,  to  stop  for  a 
moment,  close  our  eyes,  and  cool  the  forehead  with  the  icy 
water  that  dripped  from  the  rocky  wall.  We  undertook  to 
go  a  few  steps  further,  when  the  dizziness  became  greater  and 
quite  unendurable.  All  about  seemed  to  swim  and  dance,  and 
take  on  a  misty  shape  and  draw  us  down  toward  the  abyss,  a 
demoniac  desire  to  plunge  down  was  the  momentary  sensa- 
tion, and  only  by  a  convulsive  seizing  hold  of  the  guide,  shut- 
ting the  eyes,  standing  still,  and  forcibly  extinguishing  every 
thought,  did  we  succeed  in  holding  out. 

Before  one  comes  to  the  spring,  the  rocks  have  quite  closed 
about  one.  It  is  almost  night  outside  the  so-called  Magdalen's 
Grotto,  —  a  great  marble  cave,  which  was  once  fixed  upon  by 
the  Abbot  Jacobus  for  a  chapel  of  penance.  One  or  two  steps 
further  and  daylight  again  breaks  through.  One  is  at  the  out- 
let of  the  spring,  where,  from  an  opening  like  a  well,  the  hot 
water,  ninety  degrees  Fahr.,  sends  out  its  hot  vapor,  which 
rises  high  into  the  air.  One  does  not  stand  here  altogether 
in  safet}'.  It  is  only  a  year  or  two  since,  as  our  guide  told 
us,  a  company  of  people  was  here  and  a  piece  of  rock  be- 
came loose  and  crushed  one  of  them  on  the  spot.  —  a  young 
girl  from  a  Swiss  town. 

It  was  here  that,  hundreds  of  years  ago,  the  wretched  huts 
hung  over  the  steaming  water.  Down  here  the  sick  were 
lowered,  and  had  no  other  way  back,  no  other  exit  than  again 
to  be  hoisted  up  through  the  gaping  fissure.  Then,  as  now, 
the  power  of  nature  brewed  the  hot  boiling  water  in  the  rock 
and  poured  it  from  the  marble  basin  in  abundance,  —  a  great 
stream,  Tamina. 


II. 

THE   LION   AT   LUCERNE. 

AS  a  symbol  of  bravery  and  faithfulness,  they  have  placed 
a  lion  over  the  heroes'  grave.  One  is  soon  to  be  placed 
also  in  the  church-yard  at  Flensborg.  The  lion  stands  sculp- 
tured in  the  rocky  wall  at  Lucerne  —  a  memorial  of  Swiss 
valor. 

Switzerland  is  not  especially  a  land  of  monuments  :  it  is 
itself  a  monument,  by  its  mighty  Alps,  clad  in  everlasting 
snow,  with  forests  of  perpetual  green,  fresh  pastures,  and  blue, 
deep  lakes.  Whatever  men  can  erect  in  the  midst  of  such 
scenery,  always  seems  petty ;  it  is  only  the  thought  in  it  that 
gives  greatness,  and  such  one  finds  in  the  Lion  of  Lucerne, 
that  carries  the  memory  of  Swiss  faithfulness.  The  people,  in 
their  union  and  bravery,  have  raised  for  themselves  in  history 
their  own  monument  of  grandeur,  more  glorious  far  than  can 
be  imitated  in  marble.  The  spirit  of  the  people  is  incarnate 
in  the  heroic  form  of  William  Tell ;  his  life  and  deeds  are  the 
flower  of  this  land's  history  ;  his  death,  as  tradition  relates  it, 
and  as  we  find  it  given  in  the  "  Album  de  la  Suisse  pittoresque," 
and  in  the  little  narrative  "  Tell  der  Urner,"  is,  on  the  other 
hand,  less  familiar  to  people.  We  will  relate  it  as  we  steam 
past  Riitli  and  Tell's  chapel,  in  the  steamboat,  on  our  way  to 
Lucerne,  to  visit  the  monument  which  our  countryman,  Thor- 
waldsen,  modeled. 

Schiller's  drama  of  "William  Tell  "  has  become  so  popular 
in  Switzerland,  so  impressed  upon  the  peasantry,  that  this  clan 
in  the  environs  of  Freiburg,  last  summer  (i860),  just  outside 
the  town,  in  an  open  field,  before  a  great  gathering  of  specta- 
tors, acted  the  drama,  though  not  with  the  artistic  ability  which 
the  neighboring  people  of  the  Bavarian  Oberammergau  display 
in  their  Passion-play,  still  with  an  intelligence  and  a  life  which 
17 


258  IN  SWITZERLAND. 

gave  each  actor  the  highest  interest.  Some  wooden  seats 
formed  the  auditorium  ;  the  scenery  consisted  only  of  a  pole 
with  a  hat,  which  intimated  that  the  scene  lay  in  Altorf. 

Before  Riitli,  on  one  of  the  blocks  of  stone  which  rise  out 
of  the  Lake  of  Lucerne,  there  was  sculptured  last  year,  upon 
Schiller's  birthday,  the  name  of  the  poet,  and  it  was  decked 
with  flowers  as  the  name  of  one  who  had  again  called  into  life 
William  Tell.  The  drama  does  not  give  his  death  ;  that  is  told 
by  tradition. 

In  the  year  1354  there  was  a  freshet  in  the  little  mountain 
stream  Schacken,  which  flows  not  far  from  Biirglen  and  Altorf, 
and  falls  at  Reuss  into  the  Lake  of  Lucerne.  It  was  "God's 
weather,"  ^  and  the  storm  set  the  church  bells  ringing.  The 
little  stream  rose  more  and  more  ;  in  its  violent  passage  it  car- 
ried trees  and  houses  along  with  it.  There  was  seen,  driving 
down  the  stream,  a  cradle  with  a  little  child  in  it.  No  one 
dared  venture  out  to  rescue  it,  when  there  came  an  old  man 
of  fourscore  years,  who  went  into  the  flood  and  laid  hold  of  the 
cradle,  but  he  was  too  weak  to  bring  it  to  shore :  he  collected 
his  last  strength  to  reach  a  great  tree  which  stood  firmly  in  the 
rushing  water ;  he  placed  the  cradle  in  the  boughs  of  the  tree, 
where  it  was  held  fast :  the  child  was  saved,  but  he  himself, 
exhausted  and  overpowered,  was  carried  away,  sank,  was  never 
again  seen.     The  old  man  was  William  Tell. 

The  region  about  the  Lake  of  Lucerne  affords  many  historic 
memories  of  Tell's  manhood  and  daring  deeds,  that  shine  again 
in  the  Swiss  character.  One  can  build  on  the  Swiss  fidelity. 
In  Paris,  when  the  Tuileries  were  stormed,  August  10,  1792, 
the  Swiss  Guard  there,  officers  and  soldiers,  were  cut  down  — 
they  would  not  give  way.  It  is  for  these  fallen  braves  that 
General  Pfyffer  has  erected  a  monument  in  the  rocky  wall  in 
his  garden  just  outside  Lucerne. 

As  one  comes  by  steamboat  from  the  places  laden  with 
memories  of  William  Tell,  and  steps  upon  the  landing  at  Lu- 
cerne, he  has  only  a  short  way,  out  by  the  Waggis  Gate,  to 
the  little  garden,  where,  in  the  sandstone  itself,  is  carved  a 
colossal  dying  lion  pierced  by  a  broken  spear.  In  grief  and 
pain  he  holds  fast  in  his  paws  the  lilies  of  France. 

1  An  expression  used  in  Denmark  of  any  violent  commotion  in  nature, 

as  a  thunder-storm,  for  example. 


THE  LION  AT  LUCERNE.  259 

The  artist,  Aborn,  from  Constanz,  chiseled  it  in  the  sand- 
stone, after  Thorwaldsen's  model,  which  is  preserved  and  ex- 
hibited near  by  in  a  little  house  ;  but  upon  the  rock  itself,  in 
the  name  Thorwaldsen,  the  "  1  "  has  been  left  out,  so  that  it 
stands  engraved  Thorwadsen,  not  Thorwaldsen,  a  blemish 
which  has  not  yet  been  righted.  Above  the  Lion,  one  reads 
in  Latin  a  eulogistic  record  of  the  fidelity  and  courage  of  the 
Swiss  Guard.  Below  are  the  names  of  the  officers  and  the  roll 
of  the  men  who  fell.  Near  by,  in  the  chapel,  —  the  altar-cloth 
of  which  was  embroidered  by  the  Duchess  of  Angouléme,  — 
yearly  masses  are  celebrated  on  the  loth  of  August. 

The  place  itself,  quite  near  the  town,  and  by  the  public 
road,  has  a  singular  loneliness  about  it ;  it  is  as  if  the  fallen 
heroes  rested  here  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees.  An  old  sol- 
dier of  the  Swiss  Guard  keeps  watch.  He  told  us  that  when 
a  little  boy  he  served  in  the  Guard  as  a  drummer-boy ;  and  he 
told  us  that  the  Danish  sculptor  who  made  the  model  was 
once  here  on  his  journey  home  to  Denmark. 


III. 

THE   CELEBRATION   AT   OBERAMMERGAU. 

NEVER  shall  I  forget  the  Passion-play  at  Oberammergau, 
so  completely  did  it  surpass  all  my  expectation.  I  could 
QOt  think  of  it  beforehand  without  being  scandalized  at  the 
idea  of  seeing  Jesus  acted  on  the  stage ;  but  as  it  here  took 
place,  in  religious  faith,  full  of  fervor,  and  with  a  beauty  quite 
unimagined,  all  offense  was  taken  away,  and  one  found  him- 
self taken  possession  of,  —  he  came  into  sympathy  with  it  and 
was  quite  borne  along. 

Edward  Devrient,  so  well  known  as  a  skillful  dramatic  and 
theatrical  critic,  has  written  an  interesting  work  on  these  rep- 
resentations,^ which  we  especially  recommend  everyone  to  read, 

—  ever}'  one  who  thinks  that  sacred  things  are  profaned  by 
being  brought  upon  the  stage,  —  and  "  to  come,"  in  Devrient's 
words,  "  to  see,  and  to  learn."  TJiat  is  a  wish  which  we  echo, 
for,  in  truth,  this  whole  religious  play  has  a  majesty,  a  sim- 
plicity, something  so  strangely  absorbing,  that  even  the  most 
irreligious  must  needs  be  dumb  and  recognize  that  there  is  no 
sport  in  all  this,  but  a  veritable  "  means  of  revival."  The  story 
of  the  Passion,  illustrated  likewise  by  parallel  passages  from 
the  Old  Testament  narratives,  becomes  a  living  reality  to  us, 

—  the  two  Testaments  are  mingled  in  one  harmonious  whole. 
How  every-day  small  and  mean  do  not  the  usual  theatrical 
pieces  become  when  compared  with  this  great  tragedy  of 
humanity ! 

Every  tenth  year  this  people's  drama  is  reenacted,  —  the  last 
remains,  in  our  time,  of  the  miracle-plays  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
From  generation  to  generation,  the  play  and  its  management 
are  passed  down  as  an  inheritance,  having  been  omitted  for  a 
short  time  only;  but  in  the  year  1633  an  epidemic  ravaged 
the  whole  district,  when  the  people  resolved,  in  remembrance 

1  Das  Passions  —  Shauspiel  im  Dorfe  Oberammergau  in  Ober  favern, 
1850. 


THE   CELEBRATION  AT  OBERAMMERGAU.       26  1 

of  their  delivery  from  this  scourge,  to  repeat  their  religious 
play  for  edification  and  confirmation  in  faith  and  Christian  life. 
It  is  now  about  fifty  years  since  it  acquired  a  new  and  higher 
character,  when  a  monk  from  the  neighboring  monastery  of 
Ettal  worked  over  the  old  text  and  exscinded  the  burlesque 
passages,  in  which  the  devil  appears.  An  intelligible,  not  ill- 
adapted  music,  was  prepared  for  the  words  by  a  native  or- 
ganist. 

"  The  people's  play,"  says  Devrient,  "  must,  in  course  of 
time,  develop  itself  after  this  pattern,  and  find  a  place  in  dra- 
matic representation,  where  the  people  shall  have  a  chance  to 
see  and  become  acquainted  with  the  history  of  their  country, 
with  the  conflict  of  races,  and  with  progress,  and  not  get  at 
these  things  from  books  only." 

The  Passion-play  at  Oberammergau  began  this  year  ^  the 
28th  of  May,  and  continued  once  nearly  every  week  until  the 
i6th  of  September.  It  is  not  an  uncomfortable  journey  from 
Munich  here  :  in  an  hour  one  comes  by  rail  to  Starnberg, 
where  a  steamboat,  in  the  same  space  of  time,  takes  one  over 
the  lake.  We  took  this  route  to  be  present  at  the  represent- 
ation that  was  to  occur  on  the  2d  of  July.  Although  we 
came  two  days  before,  the  steamboat  was  full  to  overflowing, 
and,  at  the  landing-place,  Seeshaupt,  a  great  rush  and  confu- 
sion took  place  in  the  desire  to  secure  a  place  in  one  of  the 
many  diverse  vehicles  which  are  here  to  be  found.  We  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  a  one-horse  wagon,  and  immediately  set 
off  in  a  violent  shower,  followed  by  broiling  sunshine,  by  way 
of  Murnau,  where  many  sought  night-quarters,  and  so  into  the 
villages  that  lie  by  the  monastery  of  Ettal.  The  way  was 
crowded  with  people,  riding  and  on  foot,  who  came  singing  and 
begging ;  at  last,  after  a  good  six  hours'  drive,  we  saw  the 
church  in  Oberammergau  shine  before  us.  The  bells  rang  and 
the  cannon  sounded  till  the  hills  echoed.  There  was  a  life  and 
bustle  here,  within  the  houses  and  without ;  traders  and  peas- 
ants, ladies  in  crinoline  and  peasant  girls  in  their  national 
dress,  moved  about  together. 

As  a  favored  guest,  and  not  as  a  stranger,  was  each  one  who 
came  received  and  harbored  for  a  small  price.  The  inhabi- 
tants live  mainly  by  wood-carving,  but  at  this  time  refrain  from 

1  i860. 


262  IN  SWITZERLAND. 

their  work.  It  was  their  ten-years'  feast,  when  those  who  had 
been  far  away  came  back  to  take  part  in  it.  My  friends  in 
Munich  had  written  and  provided  beforehand,  so  that  I  was 
most  kindly  cared  for.  The  priest  of  the  place,  Daisenberger. 
who  has  written  and  published  the  history  of  Oberammergau. 
received  me  with  great  hospitality  and  gave  me  a  large,  light 
chamber ;  the  passage  outside  was  adorned  with  books  and 
religious  pictures.  Here  from  the  windows  I  could  see  almost 
the  whole  town,  the  houses  of  which  were  ornamented  with 
sacred  pictures  painted  in  fresco.  Notwithstanding  that  it 
again  began  to  rain,  the  walks  outside  were  quite  lively.  The 
street  looked  from  above  as  if  it  had  a  movable  pavement 
of  outspread,  variegated  umbrellas.  Omnibus  followed  omni- 
bus, each  more  chock-full  than  the  last.  I  met  a  number 
of  acquaintances,  and  friends  too,  from  Copenhagen,  amongst 
others,  Herr  Eckardt  and  Herr  Scharff,  from  the  Royal  The- 
atre j  from  Berlin,  the  distinguished  actress  Charlotte  von 
Hagen,  now  Baroness  von  Ofen.  The  people  of  the  town 
seemed  to  take  great  pleasure  in  hearing  how  some  had  come 
from  a  great  distance  to  their  festival ;  and  when  I  mentioned 
my  native  land,  Denmark,  they  were  acquainted  with  it,  for 
one  of  their  own  town  children,  a  native  Oberammergauer,  had 
many  years  before  gone  to  Copenhagen  and  was  residing  there  ; 
his  name  was  Blankensteiner,  and  I  recalled  him  and  his  shop 
on  Kjobmager  Street. 

The  whole  night  long  there  was  singing  and  music  without, 
great  excitement  but  no  revelry.  It  rained  in  the  morning, 
when  Pastor  Daisenberger  took  me  to  the  theatre,  which  was 
built  of  beams  and  boards,  upon  a  pretty,  green  meadow  out- 
side of  the  town.  The  signal  gun  was  fired :  the  crowd  was 
large ;  mothers  carried  their  little  children,  who,  in  full  array, 
with  braided  hair,  would  soon  appear  in  the  tableaux  vivants, 
or  act  in  the  part  of  the  youth  of  Jerusalem.  I  asked  a  little 
girl,  dressed  in  white,  with  a  garland  in  her  hair,  what  part  she 
played,  and  she  replied,  in  her  peasant  dialect,  a  genus  —  an 
angel  she  was  to  be.  The  audience  chamber  will  hold  six 
thousand  people  ;  yet,  for  all  that,  it  happens  this  summer  that 
several  thousands  more  were  here  than  could  be  accommodated 
at  once,  and  the  representation  had  to  be  repeated  on  succeed- 
ing days. 


_  THE   CELEB  R  A  TION  A  T  OBER  AMMER  G  A  U.       263 

It  was  half  after  seven  when  we  came  there  ;  a  half  hour 
later  and  the  Passion-play  would  begin,  and  with  only  an  hour's 
interruption,  would  last  until  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
I  had  been  warned  to  secure  my  seat  the  evening  before,  and 
I  had  thus  one  of  the  best,  in  the  middle  and  front  where,  with 
some  other  visitors,  I  got  a  chair  to  sit  on.  It  rained,  but  no 
one  dared  raise  his  umbrella,  since  this  deprived  those  behind 
of  a  view  ;  so  there  we  sat  in  the  rain,  and  were  told  that  at  the 
first  representation  this  year  it  snowed  so  that  the  snowflakes 
fell  upon  the  stage.  The  rain,  meanwhile,  held  up,  but  the  sky 
was  heavy  with  clouds.  The  wind  whistled  over  us,  and  birds 
flew  in  and  out.  We  could  see  all  the  mountainous  country, 
with  its  woods  and  pastures  and  towns  about  us.  I  was  made 
to  think  of  the  old  Indian  dramas  in  the  open  air,  where  Sa- 
kuntala  was  given.  In  front  of  us,  where  the  orchestra  was, 
composed  of  native  musicians,  the  stage  reared  itself ;  the 
foremost  part  of  which,  that  extended  across  the  entire  width 
of  the  spectators'  seats,  was  for  the  chorus  and  their  leaders, 
who  stepped  up  from  each  side  and  so  arranged  themselves 
that  the  tallest  stood  in  the  middle,  and  then  the  shorter,  and 
so  on.  Song,  recitative,  and  choral  responses  introduced  and 
connected  the  larger  action  with  an  effect  similar  to  that  of  the 
chorus  in  the  Greek  tragedy,  of  which  the  whole  play  strongly 
reminded  us.  There  were  sweet  voices  here,  good  delivery, 
and  all  was  done  with  an  astonishing  precision. 

In  the  centre  of  the  stage  was  erected  the  theatre  proper, 
with  movable  curtains,  shifting  scenes,  —  everything  that  be- 
longs to  representation  on  the  stage.  Upon  the  drop  curtain 
was  painted  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity.  The  theatre  itself  was 
bounded  on  each  side  by  a  small  building  with  a  balcony,  upon 
which  various  scenes  and  by-passages  were  acted.  The  struc- 
ture on  the  right  of  the  spectator  stands  for  the  High-priest's 
house  ;  that  on  the  left  is  Pilate's.  From  both  houses  a  great 
arch  springs,  through  which  one  sees  the  streets  of  Jerusalem. 
The  spectators  had  thus,  after  a  fashion,  five  distinct  views  be- 
fore them,  and  in  addition  the  larger  open  foreground  where 
the  chorus  was  displayed.  All  were  employed,  now  individ- 
lally,  now  in  company,  according  as  the  play  required. 

The  chorus-leader,  a  fine  looking  young  man,  stepped  for- 


264  I^  SWITZERLAND. 

ward  with  noble  gait  and  bearing.  The  choral  song  was  like- 
wise illustrated  b}'  tableaux  vlvants  from  the  Old  Testament. 
The  persons,  ev^en  from  year-old  children,  stood  here  immov- 
able and  fixed  longer  than  I  ever  had  known  actors  to  stand. 

The  entry  into  Jerusalem  began  with  children  shouting  and 
swinging  palm-branches,  Christ,  in  a  tunic  and  dark-red  man- 
tle, riding  upon  an  ass  ;  they  came  through  the  streets  of  Jeru- 
salem where  divers  carpets  were  spread  before  him.  His 
bearing  was  noble,  a  holy  seriousness  shone  from  his  hand- 
some face,  which,  with  his  hair  and  beard,  reminded  one  of  a 
picture  by  one  of  the  old  masters.  It  was  plain  that  the  actor 
was  penetrated  with  faith  and  a  deep  earnestness.  Through 
all  his  action  there  was  displayed  a  repose  and  beauty  that 
must  needs  impress  every  one.  No  actor,  not  the  greatest, 
could  surpass  him.  It  was  not  comedy  playing,  it  was  a  holy 
harmony,  a  real  assumption  of  the  Christ-man.  We  were  told 
that  the  persons  whom  the  communit}'  unanimously  chose  for 
the  sacred  roles  must  be  of  spotless  life,  and  that  the  one  who 
acted  Christ,  always,  before  entering  upon  the  Passion-play, 
received  the  sacrament  for  a  consecration.  This  year  it  was 
the  young  sculptor,  Schauer  ;  they  said  that  a  spiritual  and 
physical  excitement  so  took  hold  of  him  that  after  the  perform- 
ance he  could  not  eat  or  speak  to  a  soul  before  he  had  re- 
covered himself  alone  on  the  mountain. 

When,  after  the  entry  into  Jerusalem,  Christ  drove  the  trad- 
ers out  of  the  temple,  the  frightened  doves  flew  over  us,  spec- 
tators, out  into  the  open  air,  which  strangely  commingled  here 
with  the  artistic  scenery.  In  rich  succession  the  incidents  fol- 
lowed :  the  plot  of  the  Sanhedrim,  the  farewell  at  Bethany,  the 
institution  of  the  Lord's  Supper.  Everything  was  arranged 
with  artistic  skill ;  the  costumes  were  rich  and  appropriate. 
The  larger  groups  consisted  of  several  hundred  persons,  ad- 
mirably placed,  and  with  most  picturesque  effects.  Especially 
to  be  noticed  was  the  acting  of  the  young  Tobias,  as  he  left 
his  father's  home,  led  by  the  angel ;  so,  too,  there  was  a  fine 
tableau  representing  Job  surrounded  by  his  friends. 

The  dramatic  action  moved  forward  with  quickness.  The 
betrayal  by  Judas  was  introduced  by  the  tableau  of  Joseph  who 
was  sold  by  his  brethren.     Judas  himself  was  represented  with 


THE   CELEBRATION  AT  OBERAMMERGAU.       265 

striking  truthfulness.  It  was  masterly,  —  the  manner  in  which, 
at  the  Sanhedrim,  he  received  and  counted  out  tlie  pieces  of 
silver.  One  trembled  at  his  despair  and  death.  There  was 
no  thought  here  of  worlcing  upon  the  feelings  of  the  audience, 
to  make  a  showy  appearance  and  gain  applause ;  the  actor 
himself  passed  through  the  experience  which  Judas  had  known. 
With  a  like  truthfulness  and  dramatic  power  was  Pilate  given 
by  the  man  who,  ten  years  before,  acted  Christ. 

The  scenes  where  Jesus  goes  between  Herod  and  Pilate 
might  be  shortened  ;  there  was  too  much  repetition  ;  while  the 
replies,  the  Sanhedrim,  the  tumults  of  the  people,  were  given 
with  dramatic  life  ;  one  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was 
peasants  who  were  carrying  on  the  play.  I  talked  with 
one  or  two  who  were  practiced  in  theatrical  matters,  artists 
from  the  most  celebrated  German  theatres,  and  they  confirmed 
the  opinion  which  Devrient  had  pronounced,  that  the  most 
skillful  arranger  of  scenery  could  learn  much  by  coming  to 
Oberammergau  and  profiting  by  what  he  saw  ;  how  the  masses 
of  people  here  were  arranged  and  grouped  upon  the  stage  in 
its  fivefold  division  and  great  foreground.  The  dialogue  at 
one  time  was  from  the  open  balconies,  and  again  the  players 
carried  on  the  action  far  down  the  centre  of  the  stage ;  then 
through  the  open  streets,  and  forth  into  the  foreground,  the 
action  by  turns  widened  and  closed.  The  cry,  "  Not  this 
man  but  Barabbas  I  "  sounded  behind  the  stage  ;  it  resounded 
from  the  people  in  the  streets  and  from  the  open  square,  and 
here  Christ  bore  his  cross ;  then  with  the  robbers  who  were 
bound  fast,  he  moved  on  to  Golgotha ;  the  crowd  of  people 
who  followed  was  astonishingly  great,  and  yet  there  were 
plainly  to  be  seen  the  disciples,  the  mother  of  Jesus,  and  Mary 
Magdalene.  The  scenes  where  Christ  was  mocked  and  spit 
upon  were  given  with  a  fine  power,  so  that  nothing  served  to 
interrupt  the  harmony ;  but  painful,  almost  beyond  endurance, 
was  the  nailing  to  the  cross,  —  with  too  much  of  nature,  even 
to  the  blood  about  the  nails,  was  the  representation  given. 
For  more  than  half  an  hour  he  hung  fastened  to  the  cross,  and 
most  pitiable  was  it  to  see  when  the  soldiers  brake  the  legs  of 
the  malefactors  and  thrust  the  spear  into  the  side  of  Christ, 
so  that  the  blood  streamed  forth.     On  the  other  hand,  most 


266  IN  SWITZERLAND. 

exalting,  and  given  with  fervor  and  assurance,  was  the  moment 
of  death,  when  the  Saviour  bowed  his  head.  It  was  perfectly 
still  all  about,  and,  notwithstanding  the  descent  from  the  cross 
in  its  moving  naturalness  occupied  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  one 
heard  only  here  and  there  the  subdued  grief. 

During  the  entire  representation  we  had  had  alternate  rain 
and  wind,  all  the  while  cloudy  weather;  but,  by  chance,  just  as 
Christ  was  lowered  into  the  grave,  the  sun  broke  forth  and 
illumined  the  stage,  the  spectators,  the  whole  surrounding. 
Birds  sang  and  flew  here  over  us  ;  it  was  a  moment  one  never 
forgets. 

While  the  Passion-scenes  were  going  on  the  chorus  wore 
black  silk  garments ;  at  the  resurrection  they  reappeared  in 
bright  robes  and  singing  joyful  songs.  The  entire  play  was 
like  a  going  to  church  where  the  priest  is  not  heard,  but  is 
seen  as  a  living  worker :  each  went  away  raised  in  spirit,  filled 
with  that  soul  of  love  that  gave  itself  for  unborn  generations. 

No  loud  merriment  was  heard  as  the  people  on  foot  went 
away  in  great  crowds.  Wagon  followed  wagon,  it  grew  stiller 
and  stiller  in  the  village  ;  it  was  like  a  holy  festival  evening. 
We  had  seen  the  great  tragedy  of  humanity,  we  had  seen  the 
acting  of  a  splendid  popular  play  ;  new  generations  for  a  thou- 
sand years  would,  perhaps,  in  like  manner  but  in  greater  full- 
ness, see  enacted  the  by-gone  deeds  of  kingdoms  and  the 
world. 

The  mountain  tops  shone  in  the  sunlight,  an  alpine  horn 
sounded  from  the  pastures  ;  it  was  evening,  it  was  still,  star- 
lit nisfht. 


A   VISIT 

AT 

CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 


A  VISIT   AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S   HOUSE. 

ON  the  night  of  the  nth  of  May  I  went  by  steam  from 
Calais  to  Dover.  The  sea  rolled,  and  there  was  a 
strong  wind.  At  daybreak  I  was  on  English  ground,  where 
I  had  not  been  for  ten  years.  When  I  left  the  coast  at  that 
time,  Charles  Dickens  was  the  last  to  wave  me  a  good-by  ; 
my  visit  now  was  at  his  instance.  He  had  invited  me  to  come 
this  summer  and  spend  some  time  with  him  and  his  family. 

"  We  are  not  in  London  itself,"  he  wrote ;  "  we  go  out  in 
the  beginning  of  June  to  a  little  country  place  I  own,  seven- 
teen to  twenty  miles  from  London  ;  it  lies  in  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest districts  of  Kent,  near  a  railway  station,  and  one  can  thus 
be  in  London  in  half  an  hour." 

It  was  a  happy  fortune  that  allowed  me  to  call  Dickens's 
house  my  home,  to  spend  a  season  there,  and  come  close  to 
him  and  his  family  circle.  Since  my  former  visit  in  England 
we  had  kept  up  an  interchange  of  letters.  He  was  a  sym- 
pathizing friend  to  me  :  I  was  indeed  singularly  fortunate. 

The  steamer  lay  at  ebb-tide^  and  it  was  stagnant  all  about. 
The  Customs  took  up  some  time,  and  it  was  almost  too  late 
for  us  to  take  the  first  morning  train  to  London.  It  rushed 
through  tunnel  after  tunnel,  and  soon  the  great  Crystal  Palace 
was  gleaming  in  the  sunshine,  and  London,  wrapped  in  coal 
smoke,  stole  forth  from  the  horizon.  At  London  Bridge  the 
signal  had  already  been  given  on  the  other  side  of  the  station 
for  the  train  to  start  on  the  North  Kent  Railway,  that  goes  by 
Higham  Station,  near  Dickens's  place.  I  hurried  to  take  a 
seat,  and  then  we  sped  past  village  and  country-seat,  always 
near  the  Thames  that  flowed  on  our  left,  filled  with  vessels 
and  steamboats. 

Dickens  had  offered  to  come  and  meet  me  at  London,  or  at 


270       A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 

whatever  station  I  should  choose  ;  but  I  had  repHed  that  I 
could  easily  get  to  him  from  Higham,  where  I  could  learn  of 
one  of  the  men  at  the  station  whereabout  his  house  was ;  it 
would  be  easy  to  get  a  conveyance  in  such  a  place  ;  but  Hig- 
ham is  a  village  lying  about  an  English  mile  distant  from  the 
station,  which  is  only  a  solitary  house.  I  got  off  here ;  the 
train  set  off  for  Rochester,  and  I  stood  quite  forsaken. 

"  Are  you  the  foreigner  who  is  to  go  to  Mr.  Dickens's  ? " 
asked  the  station-keeper,  who  heard  that  I  was  to  come.  No 
conveyance  was  to  be  had  at  Higham.  The  man  advised  me 
therefore  to  stay  here  till  he  had  sent  to  Dickens  for  one,  or 
else  to  go  afoot  with  him.  It  was,  he  said,  two  English 
miles  to  Gadshill,  where  Dickens  lived.  I  determined  to  go ; 
so  the  station-master  took  my  valise  on  his  back,  my  bag  and 
hat-box  over  his  shoulder,  and  our  journey  began,  steadily  up 
hill,  between  blooming  gardens  with  sweet-brier  and  wild  roses. 
Every  cottage,  however  little,  looked  as  if  meant  for  a  country 
place  of  some  well-to-do  tradesman,  very  much  as  several  of 
the  houses  on  the  Strand  at  Copenhagen  ;  but  here  in  England 
it  is  the  countr}'man  who  lives  thus  snugly  and  cheerfully.  A 
little  mat  was  laid  before  the  open  door,  flowers  stood  on  the 
table,  or  in  the  window ;  every  one  of  the  countr}'  people  whom 
I  met  seemed  to  be  dressed  in  his  Sunday  clothes. 

After  a  pretty  tiresome  walk  we  came  to  the  high  road  be- 
tween Rochester  and  Gravesend ;  before  us  lay  Gadshill  Place, 
Dickens's  country-seat.  Gadshill  has  been  made  famous  by 
Shakespeare.  In  the  first  part  of  Henry  IV.  Poins  says :  — 
"  To-morrow  morning  by  four  o'clock  early  at  Gadshill,  there 
are  pilgrims  going  to  Canterbury  with  rich  offerings,  and 
traders  riding  to  London  with  fat  purses.  I  have  vizards  for 
you  all ;  you  have  horses  for  yourselves." 

Gadshill  lies  on  the  old  high  road  between  Dover  and  Lon- 
don, about  half-way.  Here,  where  pilgrims  and  travellers 
formerly  went  anxiously,  expecting  to  be  waylaid,  there  is  now 
a  charming  home,  with  the  fragrance  of  wild  roses,  flowering 
elder,  and  great  fields  of  clover,  all  quite  otherwise  than  when 
Shakespeare  looked  on  it  and  made  Falstaff  say  of  the  dan- 
gerous place  : — There  were  "a  hundred  upon  poor  four  of  us 
....  as  the  devil  would  have  it,  three  misbegotten  knaves  in 


A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE.       27I 

Kendal  green  came  at  my  back  and  let  drive  at  me ;  for  it  was 
so  dark,  Hal,  that  thou  couldst  not  see  thy  hand." 

I  stood  at  Gadshill  Place,  and  before  me  by  the  broad  high- 
way was  Dickens's  house,  the  tower  of  which,  with  its  gilded 
weathercock,  I  had  already  caught  sight  of  amongst  the  trees 
some  way  off.  It  was  a  pretty,  new  house,  with  red  walls,  four 
balcony  windows,  and  a  porch  resting  upon  pillars  ;  in  the 
upper  story  was  a  great  window  ;  a  thick  hedge  of  laums 
cerasus  was  close  by  the  house,  from  which  one  looked  out 
over  a  pretty  lawn  to  the  road,  upon  the  opposite  side  of 
which  rose  two  great  cedars  of  Lebanon,  whose  crooked 
branches  stretched  their  shade  over  a  great  grass  plat  which 
was  encircled  by  ivy  and  grape-vines  —  so  close,  so  dark  was 
this  hedge,  that  not  a  ray  of  sunlight  could  pierce  it. 

As  I  stepped  into  the  house,  Dickens  came  out  to  meet  me, 
happy,  and  with  a  cordial  greeting.  He  looked  a  little  older 
now  than  he  did  ten  years  ago  when  we  bade  each  other  good- 
by,  but  the  difference  in  age  was  chiefly  in  the  beard  which 
he  had  grown.  His  eyes  shone  as  before,  the  same  smile 
was  on  his  lips,  his  voice  was  as  hearty,  if  jDOSsible  still  more 
cordial  than  before.  Dickens  was  now  in  the  prime  of  life, 
his  forty-fifth  year,  youthful,  full  of  life,  talkative,  and  rich  in 
humor,  that  broke  forth  from  the  warmth  of  his  heart.  I 
know  no  words  more  expressive  than  those  I  used  in  my  first 
letter  home  :  "  Take  the  best  out  of  all  of  Dickens's  writings, 
make  from  them  the  picture  of  a  man,  and  you  have  Charles 
Dickens."  And  just  as  he  stood  before  me  the  first  time,  so 
was  he  without  change  all  the  weeks  that  I  spent  with  him. 
always  in  the  best  of  spirits,  and  of  unfailing  kindness. 

One  would  fain  look  for  and  find  in  a  writer's  nearest  sur- 
roundings originals  of  the  sketches  which  are  to  be  found  in 
his  works.  I  had  before  heard  several  say  that  Agnes,  in  the 
novel  "  David  Copperfield,"  was  the  picture  of  Dickens's  wife, 
and  although  she  probably  never  flitted  before  him  as  such,  I 
know  no  one  in  his  books  who,  for  beauty  and  lovableness, 
can  come  nearer  to  her  than  Agnes.  I  found  a  quiet,  a 
womanliness,  and  a  reserve  in  Mrs.  Dickens  ;  yet  when  she 
talked,  her  gentle  eyes  would  flash,  and  her  mouth  take  on  a 
smile  of  good  nature,  while  there  was  in  her  voice  something 
so  attractive  that  I  could  only  think  of  Agnes. 


272        A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKERS' S  HOUSE. 

The  apartment  where  we  gathered  with  most  of  the  house- 
hold was  a  snug  one  that  seemed  to  have  a  hoUday  air  ; 
around  the  great  windows  there  hung  outside  in  rich  ckisters 
blooming  roses ;  one  could  look  out  over  the  garden  to  green 
fields  and  the  hills  behind  Rochester.  A  good  portrait  of 
Cromwell  hung  over  the  chimney,  and  amongst  the  other 
paintings  on  the  wall  that  attracted  my  attention,  there  was 
one  in  particular  which  represented  a  carriage  in  which  sat 
two  young  ladies,  deep  in  the  reading  of  a  book,  upon  the 
back  of  which  could  be  read  the  title,  "  Bleak  House  ; "  the 
little  groom  behind  them  leaned  way  forward  so  as  also  to 
read  the  book.  Some  birds  in  a  cage  sang  joyously  —  the 
more  people  talked  at  the  table,  the  more  they  sang. 

At  dinner  Dickens  took  the  place  of  the  head  of  the  family 
at  the  end  of  the  table,  and  after  the  English  fashion,  always 
began  the  meal  with  a  short  and  silent  prayer;  my  place  was 
at  his  side  during  all  my  visit. 

In  a  letter  to  me  in  Denmark,  Dickens  had  written:  "  I  have 
finished  '  Little  Dorrit,'  and  I  am  a  free  man.  Now  we  can 
have  a  holiday,  and  play  cricket  on  the  green  meadow."  But 
the  holiday  was  put  off,  for  the  very  day  before  I  came  the 
humorist  and  playwright  Douglas  Jerrold  had  died,  and  on  his 
death-bed  he  had  said  to  his  weeping  wife,  "  Dickens  will  take 
care  of  you,  should  I  die  ;  "  and  in  truth  Dickens  did  take  most 
excellent  care  of  the  poor  widow.  It  was  his  project  that, 
when  carried  out,  resulted  in  the  collection  of  one  or  two 
thousand  pounds,  the  income  of  which  secured  her  a  comfort- 
able living.  Dickens  had  gotten  together  a  committee  with 
names  of  eminence  like  his  own,  —  Bulwer,  Thackeray,  and 
Macready,  —  and  a  programme  was  made  out  with  a  brilliant 
array  of  talent.  It  is  quite  well  known  that  Dickens  has  a 
real  genius  for  acting ;  in  his  own  house  he  has  fitted  up  a 
little  theatre^  where,  with  individuals  from  his  family  and 
friends,  he  gives  dramatic  entertainments  to  a  select  circle ; 
one  or  two  of  these  plays  he  now  proposed  to  bring  out  in 
fine  style.  Besides,  Dickens  and  Thackeray  agreed  to  give 
some  readings,  in  which  Dickens,  for  his  share,  had  chosen 
one  of  his  own  Christmas  stories. 

To  accomplish  all  this  at  once  took  a  deal  of  time  and  hard 


A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 


2/3 


work.  There  were  days  at  home  when  I  saw  him  write  and 
send  off  over  a  score  of  lettersj  but  he  did  everything  with  a 
lightsomeness  and  mirth  as  if  it  were  all  a  fine  joke.  Yet  I 
had  to  lament  that  our  companionship  was  so  shortened  and 
limited,  since  he  was  obliged,  in  his  labor  for  this  object,  to 
go  up  to  London  and  spend  entire  days  there  much  more  fre- 
quently than  was  his  wont.  When  I  arrived,  he  and  his  family 
had  only  been  a  fortnight  at  their  new  country-seat.  The 
country  about  and  all  the  walks  were  new  to  them.  I  soon 
found  for  myself  the  prettiest  points,  and  to  one  of  these, 
overlooking  Gadshill,  I  carried  Dickens  and  his  family.  The 
road  lay  by  the  highway,  and  not  far  from  the  house  was  an 
inn  with  a  sign  quite  washed  out  by  the  rain,  denoting  that 
this  place  had  been  made  famous  by  Shakespeare  ;  upon  one 
side  was  painted  Falstaff  and  Prince  Henry,  upon  the  other 
the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  putting  Falstaff  into  the  basket 
of  dirty  linen.  From  the  inn  a  lane  led  up  between  gardens 
to  a  cluster  of  cottages,  all  two  stories  high,  their  walls  clad 
with  grape-vines  ;  long  clean  white  curtains  hung  at  the  win- 
dows ;  the  house  at  the  top  of  the  group  was  guarded  by  an 
old  blind  dog ;  cows  and  sheep  grazed  in  the  meadow,  and  at 
the  highest  point  there  had  been  erected  an  obelisk  from 
which  the  plastering  had  peeled  off;  the  monument  had  great 
cracks  in  it,  and  looked  as  if  it  would  fall  at  the  first  storm. 
The  inscription  on  it  was  not  wholly  legible,  but  we  could 
make  out  so  much  as  to  know  that  it  had  been  erected  long 
since  in  honor  probably  of  the  former  owner  of  the  place.  I 
knew  about  the  monument,  and  since  I  was  the  one  who  had 
first  brought  Dickens  to  this  pretty  spot,  he  has  always  called 
the  place  since,  "Hans  Christian  Andersen's  Monument." 

From  this  point  there  was  a  most  charming  view.  North 
Kent  is  rightly  called  the  Garden  of  England  ;  it  is  Danish 
country,  but  richer  and  more  highly  cultivated.  The  eye 
roams  over  green  meadows,  yellow  cornfields,  woods,  and 
mossy  banks  ;  if  the  weather  is  clear,  one  can  see  the  North 
Sea.  The  landscape  offers  no  inland  lake ;  but  a  mile  away 
one  has  the  Thames,  that  winds  with  a  broad  and  shining 
stream  through  the  green  meadow.  Some  traces  can  be  made 
out  of  old  Roman  fortifications,  and  many  an  evening  we 
i8 


2  74       ^    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 

wandered  up  here  and  lay  on  the  grass  and  saw  the  sun  go 
down  \  its  rays  were  reflected  in  the  windings  of  the  Thames, 
like  gold,  and  the  ships  appeared  like  black  silhouettes,  while 
round  about  from  the  houses  rose  the  blue  chimney-smoke. 
The  grasshopper  chirped,  and  there  was  a  peace  brooding 
over  all  that  was  heightened  by  the  sound  of  evening  bells. 
A  great  bowl  of  claret,  decked  with  a  garland  of  wild  flowers, 
passed  round  the  circle ;  the  moon  rose,  round,  red,  and  big, 
till  it  shone  in  clear  splendor,  and  made  me  think  that  it  was 
all  a  charming  midsummer  night  dream  in  Shakespeare's  land  ; 
and  it  was  more  than  this,  for  it  was  a  reality.  I  sat  with 
Dickens,  and  heard  him  joyous  and  merry  drink  in  the  lovely 
evening,  that  surely  as  it  sported  in  his  soul  would  some  day 
shine  back  upon  us  in  some  new,  picturesque,  and  immortal 
work. 

Without  any  practice  before  in  talking  English  or  hearing 
it  spoken,  I  understood  from  the  very  first  nearly  all  that 
Dickens  said  to  me.  If  anything  was  said  that  I  could  not 
understand,  he  would  repeat  it  in  a  new  form.  No  one  was  so 
quick  to  understand  me  as  he.  Danish  and  English  are  so 
much  alike,  that  we  both  of  us  often  wondered  at  the  similarity; 
and  so  whenever  a  word  bothered  me,  Dickens  would  tell  me 
to  say  it  in  Danish,  and  often  it  happened  that  it  was  quite  of 
the  same  sound  as  in  English. 

"  Der  er  en  Græshoppe  i  den  Hostak,"  I  wanted  to  say  one 
day,  and  when  I  gave  it  in  Danish,  Dickens  translated  it,  "A 
grasshopper  in  the  hay-stack."  I  saw  a  number  of  green  plants 
growing  on  the  roof  of  a  cottage.  I  asked  what  they  were 
called  here,  saying  that  with  us  the  name  was  huus  log,  and 
the  woman  in  the  cottage  whom  we  asked  about  it  said  "  house 
leek  ; "  and  so  on  in  numberless  instances.  We  met  on  the 
road  a  little  girl  ;  she  courtesied  low  to  us,  and  I  said  that 
with  us  we  said  that  was  "  at  stobe  lys  "  (to  dip  candles),  and 
Dickens  told  me  that  here  they  called  it  "  at  dyppe  "  (dip- 
ping), with  just  the  same  notion  of  candle-making. 

In  France,  Italy,  and  Spain,  the  Dane  feels  himself  amongst 
strangers,  but  this  is  not  the  case  in  England  ;  here  he  sees 
that  they  are  blood  of  our  blood,  branches  from  the  same  root. 
The  shore  at  the  mouth  of  the  Thames,  and  Rochester,  once 


A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE.       275 

watched  fearfully  for  the  adventurous  Danes  who  came,  effected 
a  landing,  and  wrought  many  deeds  of  violence.  One  can  still 
perceive  in  the  people  and  their  speech  ties  of  kinship  from  the 
time  when  the  Danish  king  Knud  (Canure)  reigned  over  Eng- 
land and  the  three  northern  kingdoms  ;  but  England  was  the 
chief  land,  the  king's  residence.  Worsaae  has,  in  his  interest- 
ing work  on  England,  shown  us  clearly  many  Danish  memorials 
to  be  found  in  the  names  of  places,  and  also  in  speech  and  song. 
When  the  wind  sighs  with  a  melancholy  air  in  the  evening  over 
the  heath,  the  countryman  says,  "  It  is  the  Danish  boys'  song." 
It  rang  through  my  heart  with  the  thought  of  what  my  father- 
land, the  oldest  kingdom  in  Europe,  once  signified  ;  now  it  is 
only  in  art  and  science,  song  and  sculpture,  that  the  music  of 
its  name  sounds  from  that  rich  land  which  the  sea  has  cut  off 
from  West  Jutland. 

It  is  by  understanding  the  language  of  a  land  that  one  first 
becomes  at  home  there  ;  one  can  soon  make  himself  under- 
stood, but  it  takes  longer  to  understand  others  :  he  can  find 
words  to  express  his  thoughts  —  words  which  he  has  appropri- 
ated ;  but  the  connection  in  which  they  are  used  makes  their 
meaning  to  vary.  The  whole  language,  in  all  its  wealth,  and 
with  all  its  turns,  is  in  the  possession  of  the  people  that  speak 
it,  and  one  is  constantly  hearing  new  and  strange  expressions. 

I  soon  understood  when  a  person  addressed  himself  espe- 
cially to  me  ;  when  the  whole  company  carried  on  a  lively  con- 
versation, the  words  flew  back  and  forth,  and  I  sat  like  one 
deaf  amongst  the  talkers.  But  the  ear  accustoms  itself  by 
degrees  to  strange  sounds  and  tones ;  little  by  little,  as  one 
in  a  fog  can  make  out  one  mountain  top  after  another,  and 
then  the  separate  parts  of  the  landscape,  so  my  ear  got  hold 
of  words  and  sentences,  and  the  ordinary  conversation  became 
intelligible  to  me  by  bits,  and  then  in  its  completeness. 

As  I  grew  more  familiar  in  expressing  myself,  I  felt  the 
need  of  talking  about  something  else  than  the  most  plain 
matters.  I  wanted  to  give  of  my  own  personality,  and  find  in 
the  strange  tongue,  expressions  that  would  be  as  natural  to  me 
as  in  my  mother  tongue.  I  felt  myself  more  and  more  at 
home ;  even  the  smallest  children  in  the  house  began  to  un- 
derstand me ;  yes,  even  the  littlest  of  all,  who,  the  first  time  I 


276       .4    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 

asked  him  if  he  liked  me,  answered  honestly,  "  I  will  put  you 
out  of  the  window !  "  assured  me  with  laughing  face  that  now 
he  would  "  put  me  in  of  the  window."  Dickens  has  no  fewer 
than  nine  children:  two  grown  daughters,  Mary  and  Kate  ;  and 
seven  sons,  Charles,  Walter  Lander,  Francis  Jeffrey,  Alfred 
Tennyson,  Sidney  Smith,  Henry  Fielding,  and  Edward  Lytton 
Bulwer.  The  two  eldest  and  the  two  youngest  were  at  home  ; 
the  three  between  came  for  a  visit  from  France,  where  they  were 
at  a  boarding-school  in  Boulogne.  It  was  now  vacation,  and  I 
saw  them  clambering  up  among  the  branches  in  the  great  cedar- 
trees,  or  with  their  other  brothers  and  Dickens  himself  in  shirt 
sleeves,  playing  cricket  upon  the  great  green  field  near  the 
garden.  The  ladies  sat  in  the  high  grass  under  the  trees,  the 
country  children  peeped  into  the  garden,  and  the  dog  Turk 
that  was  kept  chained  all  night,  was  now  let  loose  and  reveled 
in  his  liberty,  while  his  long  iron  chain  and  kennel  were  pre- 
sided over  by  an  old  great  raven,  that  carried  himself  like  the 
raven  in  "  Barnaby  Rudge,"  which  was  still  to  be  seen,  but 
stuffed  and  set  up  in  the  dwelling-house. 

We  took  several  short  excursions  ;  one  of  the  most  enjoy- 
able in  the  neighborhood  was  by  Lord  Darnley's  park.  The 
impression  I  received  in  driving  by,  did  not  make  me  wish  to 
live  there.  The  sun  shone  brightly  over  the  green  meadows, 
and  in  among  the  great  boughs  of  the  moss-laden  trees  ;  one 
could  find  wildness  here  to  his  heart's  desire,  but  I  saw  no 
living  person.  The  whole  park  did  not  give  the  picture  of 
wooded  solitude,  with  its  winning,  refreshing  rest ;  but  on  the 
contrary,  the  picture  was  of  a  landscape  asleep  :  it  stretched 
before  me  as  if  a  castle  and  park  in  one  summer  night  in 
Queen  Elizabeth's  time  had  been  sunk  in  the  earth,  and  now 
had  suddenly  risen  again  in  the  clear  sunshine,  and  lay  here 
lighted  but  not  warmed  and  awakened.  I  would  like  to  have 
looked  at  the  blooming  garden,  but  I  did  not  care  to  enter. 
The  road  home  lay  through  the  citified  Gravesend  ;  we  fol- 
lowed the  highway,  which  was  crowded  with  full  omnibuses, 
heavy  draught  wagons,  and  soldiers  on  the  march.  One  even- 
ing at  sundown,  I  saw  near  Gadshill  a  great  company  —  I 
dare  not  say  how  many  —  of  gypsies,  that  in  their  wandering 
had  encamped  on  the  road  side,  built  a  fire,  and  were  cooking 


.A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 


277 


their  meal  in  a  great  kettle ;  a  horse  stood  fastened  to  a  heavy 
laden  wagon,  children  were  running  about,  and  the  whole 
formed  a  capital  subject  for  a  picture. 

Higham  was  the  nearest  railway  station  to  us,  but  Dickens 
most  frequently  took  the  train  for  London  from  Rochester, 
and  I  sometimes  accompanied  him.  We  talked  with  freshness 
and  life  in  the  bright  morning  hours  \  the  dewy  cobwebs  lay 
like  veils  flung  out  over  the  fields  and  ditches  ;  the  foot  pas- 
sengers had  scratched  their  names  in  the  clay  banks  by  the 
way,  —  a  transient  immortality  in  earthly  mould,  yet  that  is 
quite  all  that  earthly  immortality  ever  is.  Very  often,  as  we 
came,  the  greatest  part  of  the  town  lay  stretched  before  us 
sleeping  in  the  morning  mist ;  then  the  mist  would  rise,  and 
disclose  the  picturesque  old  castle  ruin,  with  its  ivy  clad  walls 
and  the  grand  Cathedral.  We  drew  near  the  new  bridge,  and 
the  ruins  of  the  old  were  close  by ;  sometimes  it  was  ebb-tide, 
then  the  ships  lay  upon  their  sides  like  dead  fishes  upon  the 
muddy  ground.  I  wandered  about  Rochester;  it  was  the 
scene  of  several  sketches  of  the  Pickwick  Club.  I  heard  the 
Scotch  bagpipe  here  one  day  ;  an  old  Scotsman  clad  in  plaid, 
that  did  not  cover  his  naked  knees,  played  on  the  instrument ; 
two  small  boys,  dressed  like  the  old  fellow,  walked  on  their 
hands,  and  did  other  tricks,  while  their  little  sister  danced  on 
the  flagging,  swung  her  plaid  about,  and  sang.  It  looked 
melancholy  enough.  I  wanted  to  weep  at  the  sound  of  the 
bagpipe  ;  and  ever  since,  when  Rochester  comes  up  to  my 
thoughts  with  its  long  narrow  streets,  I  seem  to  see  these  chil- 
dren and  their  old  sire  from  Burns'  mountain  country,  the 
"  land  of  the  brown  heath." 

From  Strood,  the  nearest  place  to  Rochester,  one  can  go  by 
the  quickest  train  in  half  an  hour  to  London  ;  I  used  to  take 
this  train,  either  alone  or  with  Dickens  and  his  family,  and 
stay  at  their  city  house,  which  was  filled  with  paintings  and 
other  works  of  art,  just  like  their  country  home.  Tavistock 
House  is  in  Tavistock  Square :  a  grated  door  separates  the 
yard  and  litde  garden  from  the  noisy  street ;  a  larger  garden 
with  a  grass  plat  and  high  trees  spreads  out  behind  the  house, 
and  gives  the  whole  a  country  look  in  the  midst  of  this  coal 
and  gas  stricken  London.     In   the   hall    that   runs   from    llic 


278       A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 

street  to  the  garden  there  hang  paintings  and  engravings  ; 
here  stood  Dickens's  bust,  very  like  himself,  young  and  hand- 
some, and  over  the  doors  to  the  bed-chamber  and  dining-hall 
were  Thorwald sen's  bas-reliefs,  "  Night  and  Day."  On  the  first 
floor  was  a  fine  library  with  fire-place  and  working  table  ;  and 
leading  from  this  to  the  garden  was  the  place  where  Dickens 
with  his  family  and  friends,  in  the  winter  time,  played  com- 
edies for  their  mutual  enjoyment.  In  the  cellar  is  the  kitchen, 
and  higher  up  in  the  house  are  the  sleeping  apartments.  I 
had  a  snug  room  looking  out  on  the  garden,  where  I  could  see 
over  the  trees  the  Tower  of  London,  sharp  or  blurred,  accord- 
ing as  it  was  clear  or  misty.  It  was  a  long  way  from  here  to 
the  very  busy  streets  ;  in  one  of  them,  just  opposite  the  Ly- 
ceum Theatre,  is  the  office  of  "  Household  Words,"  Dickens's 
literary  counting-house,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  from  which  this 
stor3'-telling,  widely-circulated  weekly  issues  to  the  number  of 
not  less  than  fifty  thousand  copies. 

Here  I  was,  again,  in  the  crowded  London,  with  its  waves  of 
humanity.  It  seemed  as  if  but  yesterday  since  I  was  here,  and 
that  no  3'ears  had  rolled  by.  I  seemed  to  be  looking  upon  the 
same  great  flood  of  men,  the  same  throng  of  omnibuses,  cabs, 
and  carriages  ;  men  with  signs  on  their  backs  and  on  poles, 
moved  along  among  the  high  houses  ;  the  Thames  rolled  along 
with  the  same  crowd  of  sail  and  steamships,  yachts  and  boats, 
that  crossed  and  recrossed  ;  there  was  the  same  rush  and  life 
as  ten  years  before. 

This  time  I  was  in  company  with  Dickens,  to  see  and  ob- 
serve many  notable  things  in  the  art  world.  One  of  these 
was  the  Handel  festival  at  the  Crystal  Palace,  the  chorus  and 
orchestra  numbering  no  less  than  two  thousand  persons.  One 
can  reach  Sydenham  Park  in  fifteen  minutes  by  the  railway, 
and  be  carried  directly  into  the  palace  ;  but  it  was  more  the 
"  fashion  "  to  go  out  with  horse  and  carriage.  The  whole 
route  thither  was  filled  therefore  with  equipages,  one  right 
behind  the  other  ;  the  sun  burned  down,  the  dust  rose,  and  we 
could  not  go  faster  than  a  walk. 

It  is  the  Crystal  Palace  which  first  stood  in  London,  and  has 
been  moved  out  here,  receiving,  I  believe,  a  new  minaret-like 
tower.     It  is  like  a  great  town  under  roof,  as  if  all  the  glass- 


A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKEiYS'S  HOUSE. 


279 


xooit.Å  passages  of  great  towns  were  collected  here,  and  crossed 
and  recrossed  by  galleries  and  hanging  balconies.  It  is  just 
as  if  one  saw  here  a  fairy  enchanted  castle,  with  richly  en- 
dowed halls  that  grew  by  caprice  ;  here  are  Pompeian  rooms, 
French  galleries,  fantastically  towering  into  one  another  in 
arabesque  fashion  around  a  mighty,  lofty  hall,  where  in  a  mar- 
ble basin  grow  blue  and  white  lotus  flowers,  and  upon  the  pil- 
lars climb  fresh  leafy  vines  ;  fine  statues  stand  among  flower- 
ing trees  ;  one  is  in  a  garden  and  yet  under  roof,  where  even 
the  giant  tree  lifts  its  great  branches  surrounded  by  forms  that 
represent  groups  of  wild  men  and  beasts.  The  sun  shone 
upon  the  enormous  building,  a  huge  canvas  was  extended 
inside  under  the  roof,  to  keep  out  the  glare  of  the  sun,  and 
the  galleries  and  passages  were  filled  with  crowds  of  people 
passing  hither  and  thither.  In  company  with  Dickens's  fam- 
ily, I  had  a  excellent  place  just  opposite  the  Queen  and  her 
retinue.  In  the  middle  of  the  hall,  from  the  floor,  and  high 
up,  there  rose  an  amphitheatre  containing  the  two  thousand 
singers  and  players.  Handel's  statue,  decked  with  flowers, 
stood  forward,  —  a  little  point,  a  golden  key,  that  held  together 
the  great  human  fan.  Now  the  organ  burst  forth,  the  musi- 
cians fell  in,  and  the  chorus  broke  into  the  hymn,  "  God  save 
the  Queen  !  "  it  was  as  if  a  roaring  sea  of  music  rolled  forth. 
The  music  and  all  the  accompanying  spectacle  filled  full  the 
ear  and  eye,  and  during  the  pauses  in  the  music,  one  could 
hear  the  strong  wind  without  rush  in  by  the  roof  of  the  palace, 
as  if  it  would  join  in  the  sound.  The  solos  sounded  feeble  in 
the  immense  hall,  and  even  Clara  Novello's  full  voice  had  not 
strength  enough  here,  where  the  room  was  suitable  only  for  a 
great  choir.  The  price  of  admission  was  two  guineas  ;  but 
for  all  that,  there  were  over  twenty-four  thousand  hearers  ;  and 
when  these  came  to  go  away,  all  the  fountains,  more  than  two 
thousand,  began  to  play  outside  in  the  bright  sunshine  ;  the 
drops  of  falling  water  shining  like  diamonds,  were  carried  by 
the  wind,  looking  like  floating  veils  colored  with  the  rainbow, 
all  over  the  green  sward.  The  wind  bore  the  water-dust  from 
fountain  to  fountain  ;  it  was  a  sight  such  as  one  imagines  at 
the  bottom  of  the  ocean,  in  the  garden  of  the  water-sprites, 
where  swinging  kiosks,  domes,  temples,  even  trees  themselves 


2 So       A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 

are  built  of  the  living  water  ;  and  charming  indeed  it  looked 
when  a  gust  of  wind  suddenly  swept  over  the  groups  of  peo- 
ple looking  on  ;  they  scampered  away  over  the  wet  grass,  and 
many  a  little  crinoline  heap  was  swelled  by  the  gust,  like  an 
open  umbrella,  looking  as  if  just  setting  out  for  London  by 
balloon  post. 

One  of  my  wishes  was  to  be  gratified  at  the  Lyceum  Thea- 
tre, for  there  I  was  to  see  the  famous  queen  of  tragedy,  Ristori. 
Rachel,  that  woman  of  genius,  had  been  set  aside  for  her  by 
the  Parisians.  Often  had  I  heard  of  Signora  Ristori's  won- 
derful performances,  that  even  made  beautiful  the  unlovely 
chief  part  in  Alfieri's  "  Myrrha."  I  had  especially  heard  of 
her  representation  of  Marie  Stuart,  which  was  spoken  of  as  a 
great  result  of  study  and  genius.  She  must  then  surpass  in 
this  role  Rachel,  whom  I  had  seen  in  it  great  and  satisfying; 
others  had  in  quite  the  opposite  manner  expressed  themselves 
respecting  Ristori ;  one  highly  cultivated  lady  had  given  me  a 
characteristic  sketch  of  her,  that  Ristori  always  reminded  her 
of  the  epileptic  in  Raphael's  "  Transfiguration,"  eternally  and 
always  in  ecstasy.  I  was  now  to  see  for  myself  the  tragic 
muse  of  our  day.  Unfortunately  it  w-as  not  permitted  me  to 
see  her  in  Marie  Stuart,  because  this  evening  "  Camma  "  was 
given,  a  tragedy  by  a  new  Italian  author,  Montanelli ;  it  was 
a  sort  of  Norma-Medea,  written,  it  was  said,  for  Ristori.  and 
quite  in  Alfieri's  manner.  Ristori  stood  upon  the  stage  when 
I  entered  my  box  ;  the  house  was  only  half  full ;  the  flocking 
after  Ristori  this  year  was  rather  on  the  decline,  and  the 
tragedy  of  "Camma"  not  a  favorite  one. 

Amongst  the  audience  on  the  floor  I  was  made  aware  of  a 
young,  good-looking  lady,  with  shining  black  hair.  It  was  the 
actor  Kemble's  sister,  granddaughter  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  Eng- 
land's Ristori.  Several  authors  of  repute,  dramatic  artists, 
such  as  the  singer  Clara  Novello,  sat  here,  and  the  audience 
seemed  made  up  of  friends  of  Ristori.  We  know  that  she  is 
the  daughter  of  poor  Italian  strolling  players.  It  is  related 
that  as  a  little  child  she  lay  in  a  basket  behind  the  scenes 
while  her  mother  played.  She  herself  began  to  play  at  a  very 
early  age,  and  it  was  in  Turin  that  her  extraordinary  talent 
was  first  observed.     Afterward  she  married  an  Italian  noble- 


A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE.        261 

man,  whose  family,  it  was  said,  was  angry  at  getting  a  daugh- 
ter-in-law from  the  theatre  ;  but  her  personal  attractions  soon 
won  them  all ;  and  when  at  a  later  period  financial  reasons  led 
her  to  resume  her  place  in  the  theatre,  where  she  won  great 
renown,  her  husband  accompanied  her  to  Paris,  and  there  her 
greatness  was  recognized.  She  held  the  tragic  sceptre  alone, 
and  Rachel  went  to  America.  Ristori's  name  soon  became 
famous  in  neighboring  lands,  and  England  and  Germany  fol- 
lowed the  example  of  France  in  enthusiasm  over  her. 

Signora  Ristori  has  an  excellent  appearance  on  the  stage,  a 
noble  bearing,  speaking  eyes,  and  a  pantomimic  power,  which 
in  my  opinion  is  too  strong,  and  only  suited  to  the  ballet,  where 
mimicry  has  to  express  its  meaning  without  the  aid  of  words. 
Her  transitions  were  so  rapid  that  they  could  only  be  war- 
ranted on  the  ground  of  the  truthfulness  of  genius.  At  first  I 
could  not  quite  accustom  myself  to  them.  I  had  to  think  of  a 
story  that  is  told,  the  point  of  which  lies  in  the  narrator's 
change  of  face,  while  the  words  are  only  those  of  an  old 
woman  who  always  used  to  frighten  children  by  her  angry  face, 
and  who  one  day  took  great  pains  to  look  kind  and  smiling  at 
her  neighbor's  children  who  had  come  to  her,  and  to  say  with 
a  laugh  and  with  beaming  eyes,  beginning  in  the  softest  tones, 
"  Wouldn't  the  little  children  like  to  go  down  into  the  garden 
and  get  some  apples,  pears,  and  cherries  ?  "  but  the  good-will, 
with  the  smile  and  friendly  countenance,  always  underwent  a 
change  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence,  so  that  "  apples  and 
pears  "  took  on  an  amount  of  gruffness  that  culminated  in  the 
last  word  —  "  cherries."  The  short  sentence  that  began  like  a 
mild  breeze  ended  as  in  a  hurricane.  I  was  reminded  of  this 
story  by  seeing  and  hearing  Ristori.  Her  whole  surroundings 
seemed  only  a  feeble  echo  of  her.  She  did  not  excite  me,  and 
yet  every  word  was  in  exactly  the  right  tone,  every  movement 
true  to  the  Italian  fiery  nature  ;  but  the  whole  was  underscored, 
and  raised  to  a  pitch  which  I  believed  uncalled  for  by  reality. 
Still  I  must  confess  that  I  came  from  the  great  concert  in  the 
Crystal  Palace,  tired  out  and  filled  intellectually,  rather  desiring 
now  simple  nature,  and  looking  for  it  in  this  famous  actress. 
But  in  the  closing  scene  of  the  piece,  where  the  heroine  has 
fjiven  the  poison  to  her  treacherous  bridegroom,  and  now  her- 


282        A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 

self  drains  the  chalice,  and  dying  prays  the  priests  to  sound 
their  harps  while  her  soul  and  thought,  as  if  borne  on  these 
tones,  are  lifted  into  the  company  of  spirits,  so  that  she  there 
thinks  she  sees  her  mother,  her  husband,  and  her  children,  there 
was  in  this  a  power  displayed  which  laid  strong  hold  of  me, 
and  made  me  bow  in  admiration  of  the  might  of  this  actress. 

Far  more  interesting  and  of  great  artistic  excellence  seemed 
to  me  her  acting  of  Lady  Macbeth,  which  I  afterward  saw  once 
or  twice.  Shakespeare's  tragedy  has  been  translated  into  Ital- 
ian, and  seemed  expressly  written  for  Signora  Ristori  ]  Mac- 
beth's  part  was  given  not  without  talent,  but  with  all  the  wild 
passion  which  I  think  belongs  to  the  Moors,  and  not  to  a 
Scottish  clan.  The  piece  itself  was  in  many  respects  well 
mounted.  During  the  table  scene,  where  Banquo's  murderers 
bring  the  intelligence  to  Macbeth  that  they  have  accomplished 
the  murder,  they  stepped  forward,  dressed  like  the  other  ser- 
vants of  the  castle,  and  while  they  stood  in  the  foreground  and 
pour  out  the  king's  wine,  they  tell  him  of  the  horrid  deed.  The 
witches  appeared  without  music  and  song,  but  their  melo- 
dramatic delivery  and  action  were  very  effective.  Signora 
Ristori  as  Lady  Macbeth,  was  the  principal  character  in  the 
piece  ;  there  was  in  all  her  acting  a  profound  psychologic  truth, 
fearful,  and  yet  within  the  limits  of  the  beautiful ;  the  great 
scene  was  the  sleep-walking  one ;  it  is  impossible  that  at  any 
time  before  or  since,  a  more  true  and  moving  picture  could  have 
been  given  of  this  woman  so  troubled  in  soul  and  body  ;  never 
can  I  forget  the  terribly  dry,  deep  voice,  with  which  the  words 
came  forth  ;  it  was  not  speech,  but  thoughts,  deep  from  within, 
that  uttered  themselves  in  the  painful  sighs  which  broke  from 
her,  which  were  not  strong,  but  so  full  of  sorrow,  so  heart-rend- 
ing, as  to  go  through  every  one's  nerves.  It  was  not  to  be  for- 
gotten !  One  sees  the  terrible  woman,  as  Macbeth  in  fright 
says  to  her,  "  Bear  me  no  daughters  but  sons."  It  was  as  if 
the  final  remnant  of  human  nature  within  her  turned  pale  at  the 
horrid  drop  of  blood ;  involuntarily  one  held  his  breath  ;  a  de- 
spairing human  soul  falling  into  perdition  went  by  us  ;  its  body 
was  only  a  holster.  Something  like  this,  having  the  same 
characteristic  of  truth  and  genius,  was  recalled  by  me  —  I  mean 
Jenny  Lind's  pure,  mournful  somnambulism  in  the  opera  "  La 
Sonnambula." 


A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE.       283 

For  the  rest,  as  regards  the  setting  of  the  piece  on  the  stage, 
—  and  I  must  here  acknowledge  the  carrying  of  this  too  far,  — 
one  gets  in  London  a  conception  of  what  can  be  done,  by  the 
splendid  display  with  which  the  director  Kean  brings  Shake- 
speare's plays  upon  the  stage.  Kean  is  a  son  of  the  eminent  ac- 
tor, but  in  this  act  there  is  nothing  whatever  of  the  father's  dis- 
tinction ;  on  the  contrary,  there  is  the  great  difference,  tliat  he 
by  his  historical  studies  and  true  genius  has  put  Shakespeare's 
plays  on  the  stage  in  a  manner  never  seen  by  the  poet  himself, 
and  as  no  one  before  Kean  had  ever  seen  them.  He  has  had 
a  regard  to  truthfulness  never  before  known.  Thus  before  no 
one  had  ever  hesitated  in  "  King  Lear  "  to  leave  out  the  fool, 
who  is  one  of  the  most  important  characters  in  the  tragic  group. 
The  actor  Macready,  Dickens  told  me,  had  been  the  first  to 
restore  this  notable  character.  After  r^ost  lavish  expenditure 
had  been  made,  and  many  rehearsals,  Shakespeare's  "  Tem- 
pest "  was  ready  to  be  given  ;  and  I  saw  it  on  its  first  presenta- 
tion,  when  the  house  was  crowded  with  spectators.  The  theatre 
itself  is  not  large,  so  that  it  is  incredible  what  the  will  and 
genius  of  one  man  could  here  effect.  The  scene-painter  and 
costumer  had  given  their  aid  to  produce  the  most  striking 
effects.  Really  it  was  placed  on  the  stage  with  all  the  fancy  of 
a  Shakespeare.  During  the  overture,  a  storm  was  heard  mut- 
tering, the  thunder  rolled,  cries  and  screams  were  heard  from 
behind  the  stage  ;  the  entire  prelude  was  thus  given  while  the 
curtain  was  still  down  ;  and  when  it  rolled  up,  great  waves 
seemed  to  be  rolling  toward  the  footlights,  the  whole  stage  was 
a  furious  sea,  a  great  ship  was  tossed  back  and  forth  ;  this  oc- 
cupied all  the  next  scene  ;  seamen  and  passengers  tumbled 
about,  there  was  a  death  shriek,  the  masts  fell,  and  then  the 
ship  was  swallowed  up  by  the  sea.  Then  it  turned  out,  as 
Dickens  told  me,  that  the  whole  ship  was  made  of  air-tight 
linen,  which  had  been  puffed  out,  and  from  which  they  now  all 
at  once  let  out  the  air ;  the  great  hulk  shrunk  together  into  a 
piece  of  cloth,  and  was  hidden  by  the  waves  which  rose  to  half 
the  height  of  the  stage. 

Ariel's  first  appearance  was  highly  poetical ;  when  Prospero 
summons  him,  a  shooting-star  falls  from  heaven  and  touches 
:he  grass  ;  it  burns  with  blue  and  green  flames,  and  then  one 


284       A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 

suddenly  sees  Ariel's  beautiful  angelic  form  ;  he  stood  dad  in 
white,  with  wings  from  his  shoulder  reaching  to  the  ground  ;  he 
appeared  to  have  come  with  the  shooting-star.  Every  revela- 
tion of  Ariel  was  different,  and  always  beautiful.  He  would 
appear  suddenly,  hanging  by  the  hand,  in  a  garland  of  vine 
leaves ;  then  he  would  float  over  the  stage  by  means  of  a 
mechanism  which  it  was  not  possible  to  discover ;  there  was 
no  string  or  iron  bar  to  be  seen,  and  yet  there  was  some  such 
thing  below  that  sustained  him  in  his  flying  position.  In  one 
of  the  acts  there  was  seen  a  desert,  wintry  place,  that,  as  the 
sun's  rays  became  more  and  more  strong,  was  transformed 
little  by  little  to  the  most  luxuriant  nature.  Trees  shot  up, 
flowered,  and  bore  fruit ;  springs  bubbled  up  and  down  by  a 
great  waterfall ;  nymphs  were  dancing,  lightly  as  swan's  down 
upon  the  Vt^ater.  In  a  succeeding  act,  Olympus  shone  with  ail 
its  forms  of  beauty  ;  the  whole  background  was  an  airy  place, 
filled  with  floating  gods  and  goddesses.  Juno  drove  by  in 
her  chariot  drawn  by  peacocks  whose  tails  glittered  in  the 
sunshine.  The  signs  of  the  zodiac  were  displayed  :  the  whole 
was  a  fantastic  kaleidosco]oe.  The  splendor  and  excitement  of 
a  single  act  was  enough  to  have  drawn  a  full  house  for  the 
most  insignificant  piece,  and  here  it  was  lavished  on  all  the 
acts  of  one  of  Shakespeare's  works  —  it  was  really  quite  too 
much ;  aye,  one  sailed  with  the  lovers  in  the  gliding  boat, 
and  saw  their  thoughts  at  work  !  The  entire  background 
was  in  motion ;  landscape  followed  landscape,  a  moving  pano- 
rama. 

The  closing  scene  in  the  "Tempest"  was  undeniably  the  one 
which  produced  the  greatest  effect.  The  entire  stage  repre- 
sented a  broad  sea  that  was  stirred  by  the  wind.  Prospero, 
who  leaves  his  island,  stood  in  the  stern  of  the  ship  that  came 
sailing  down  from  the  background  to  the  footlights  ;  the  sails 
swelled,  and  after  the  final  epilogue  had  been  spoken,  the  ship 
glided  down  one  of  the  side  scenes,  and  now  floating  over  the 
water  appeared  Ariel  nodding  farewell.  The  whole  light  fell 
upon  him  with  the  effect  that  he  seemed  under  the  electric 
light  to  be  the  one  that,  as  a  meteor,  gave  the  whole  stage  its 
brilliancy  ;  a  pretty  rainbow  was  seen  over  the  water,  the 
moon   became  only  a  faint  ball  of  fire  against  the  sunlight 


A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE.       285 

and  the  rainbow  glory  which  Ariel  caused  to  stream  forth  at 
the  moment  of  his  departure. 

It  was  surpassingly  fine.  The  public  was  enthusiastic 
through  the  long  acts  and  the  representation,  which  stretched 
out  indefinitely.  The  first  evening  people  sat  from  seven  in 
the  evening  till  half  past  twelve.  Everything  was  done  which 
machinery  and  mounting  of  the  piece  could  give,  and  yet  after 
one  had  seen  the  whole,  one  felt  worn  out,  tired,  and  dull. 
Shakespeare  himself  was  changed.  His  work  was  petrified  in 
illustrations  ;  the  living  word  evaporated,  there  was  nothing 
of  the  spiritual  nature  left,  all  was  forgotten  for  the  gold  dish 
that  was  carried  out. 

None  of  the  players  appeared  to  me  of  any  consequence  as 
dramatic  artists,  except  the  one  who  had  Caliban's  part. 
Ariel,  who  was  played  by  a  girl,  had  a  pretty  form ;  and  when 
I  have  named  these  two  I  have  named  all  who  had  any  special 
character.  Kean  himself  preached  constantly,  and  has  not  at 
all  an  agreeable  voice.  A  work  of  Shakespeare's  artistically 
brought  out  among  three  screens  only,  is  for  me  a  greater 
pleasure  than  this  which  was  suffocated  in  beauty. 

However  impressive  such  an  evening  with  Director  Kean 
may  have  been,  one  can  be  quite  as  much  overwhelmed  in 
other  places  in  London  the  next  day.  I  mention  the  British 
Museum  — to  go  through  which,  relate,  and  explain  all  its  won- 
ders, belongs  only  to  those  who  wish  to  write  volumes.  I 
know  no  comparison  more  significant  than  with  a  scholar's 
brain,  where  everything  in  literature,  art,  and  science,  is  disposed 
in  the  best  order,  and  one  is  going  through  the  veins  and  fibres 
like  an  animalcule.  The  British  Museum  is  also  a  treasury 
of  all  the  wonders  of  the  world  for  the  last  two  thousand  years. 
The  great  building  containing  it  extends  along  several  streets, 
and  incloses  mighty  halls  of  learning.  One  enters  and  stands 
suddenly  among  the  curiosities  of  Nineveh,  which  seem  just  as 
new  as  if  carved  and  polished  in  one  day ;  we  see  what 
Nimrod  and  Semiramis  saw  in  murky  antiquity.  We  step  in 
among  the  sacred  mysteries  of  Egypt ;  hideous  statues  of 
gods  of  brightly  polished  stone  stand  in  rows.  We  see  mum- 
mies, which  are  shown  all  the  way  from  the  one  in  the  un- 
opened cofiin  to  that  which  has  been  freed  from  each  swathing, 


286        ^    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 

a  dried,  blackened  body  ;  the  long  black  hair  still  hangs  down 
from  the  crown  of  the  head  ;  here  is  a  foot,  here  a  hand,  fallen 
from  one  or  another  mighty  man  or  woman  from  the  land  of 
the  Nile.  We  wander  through  the  art  of  Greece,  forms  of 
beauty  from  the  time  of  Phidias  and  Praxiteles.  Here  we 
find  the  Parthenon  bas-reliefs,  the  groups  from  the  temple  of 
Ægina  —  wonder  after  wonder. 

Not  only  can  we  follow  here  the  imprint  of  man's  nature 
and  skill  through  two  thousand  dead  years  ;  representations 
of  all  the  animals  of  the  earth  before  man  appeared  stand  be^ 
fore  us  ;  we  see  shapes  of  animals  that  have  become  extinct ; 
the  strata  of  the  earth  have  preserved  them  for  us,  as  a  herba- 
rium keeps  plants.  In  one  of  the  larger  halls  there  is  a  row 
of  gigantic  skeletons  of  mammoths  and  other  antique  creatures. 

A  contrast  to  these  is  in  the  beauty  of  the  birds  here. 
Lovely  white  flamingoes  we  see,  humming-birds  that  display 
colored  fire-works,  and  possess  a  beauty  that  makes  the  most 
beautiful  butterfly  a  dowdy  thing.  The  British  Museum  is  a 
veritable  old  curiosity  shop  that  awaits  its  poetical  writer.  It 
is  a  treasure,  a  great  pearl,  which  only  the  Queen  of  the  Sea, 
mighty  England,  could  possess. 

One  place  more  in  London  I  must  mention  ;  it  lies  in  one 
of  the  narrow,  dirty  streets,  down  by  the  Thames,  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  grimy  part  of  the  city.  There  we  must  go, 
for  there  grows  the  7iymphæa  alba  of  newspapers,  the  queen- 
flower,  with  more  than  fifty  thousand  leaves  ;  twice  a  day  it 
puts  out  its  flowers  and  leaves,  and  scatters  them  all  over  the 
world  from  Lapland  to  Hindostan.  I  saw  this  flower  opening, 
heard  its  leaves  unroll  themselves  each  minute ;  it  was  so 
overpowering,  so  exciting,  that  I  seemed  to  be  standing  in 
the  midst  of  a  rushing  waterfall.  I  was  in  the  "  Times  "  print- 
ing-office. I  saw  a  series  of  cellars,  halls,  rooms,  and  cham- 
bers that  constituted  a  remarkably  united  whole  under  almost 
military  discipline ;  not  only  the  different  columns  in  the 
paper,  but  the  various  articles  had  their  divisions,  their  lead- 
ers. One  followed  the  journal  in  all  its  stages,  from  white 
paper  till  it  stood  compact  in  the  printed  columns.  Man's 
intellect  here  shares  the  empire  with  the  might  of  steam. 
Master  Bloodless  stretches   his  iron  fingers  and  moves  his 


A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE.       287 

muscles  of  cord  and  leather.  The  great  heavy  bundles  of 
paper  are  stored  away  and  dragged  on  railways  through  the 
rooms.  The  commands  of  the  master  spirit  fly  by  the  electric 
wire  from  one  part  of  the  building  to  another.  In  a  sort  of 
rotunda,  where  I  took  my  place  upon  a  gallery  running  round 
the  wall,  the  pulse  of  the  whole  was  beating.  The  room  was 
nearly  filled  with  an  enormous  wheel  at  which  the  work- 
men sat,  separated  from  each  other,  while  everything  was 
whirling  and  rushing.  The  sheets  were  lifted,  moistened, 
turned  on  a  machine,  and  came  out  with  the  printed  words  on 
one  side,  turned  themselves,  and  the  other  side  then  appeared 
with  the  columns  printed ;  then  they  were  passed  over  heated 
cylinders,  spread  out,  laid  together,  came,  and  vanished.  I 
saw  that  the  great  white  sheets  moved  with  a  flash,  took  up 
the  print,  and  fell  from  hand  to  hand.  It  sounded  as  if  a 
great  brawling  stream  were  pouring  forth.  The  gallery  on 
which  I  stood  shook  with  the  motion  of  the  machinery  ;  a 
shudder  ran  through  my  nerves  ;  I  did  reverence  to  Master 
Bloodless  and  his  lord,  Human  Thought. 

If  I  have  given  any  conception  with  my  words  of  this 
roaring,  whirling  maelstrom  which  London  displays,  one  will 
understand  how  welcome  is  the  sensation  to  one  of  escaping 
to  some  home  snuggery,  aye,  to  one  of  choicest  surroundings. 

Miss  Burdett  Coutts  is  called  the  richest  lady  in  England. 
Dickens  has  dedicated  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit "  to  her  ;  her  for- 
tune is  said  to  be  unbounded,  but  what  is  most  to  her  honor  is, 
that  she  is  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  beneficent  women  in 
the  land.  It  is  not  merely  that  she  has  built  many  churches, 
but  she  cares  in  the  most  Christian  manner  for  the  poor,  the 
sick  and  distressed  ;  her  house  in  London  is  sought  by  the  rich- 
est and  most  highly  esteemed.  I  found  at  Dickens's  house  at 
Gadshill  the  first  day  I  was  there,  an  old,  poorly  dressed  lady, 
and  one  somewhat  younger  ;  they  were  there  several  days,  and 
were  most  amiable,  straightforward,  and  hearty.  We  strolled 
together  to  the  monument.  I  drove  with  them  to  Rochester  ; 
and  when  they  left  us  the  youngest  said  that  I  was  to  come 
and  stay  in  her  house  when,  one  of  these  days,  I  went  to  Lon- 
don. I  heard  from  Dickens  that  it  was  Miss  Coutts  ;  he  spoke 
of  her  with  profound  respect,  and  of  the  beautiful  Christian  use 


288        A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 

which  she  made  of  her  immense  fortune  ;  I  should  find  with 
her,  he  said,  an  Enghsh  house  in  its  most  wealthy  condition. 
I  went ;  and  it  was  not  the  rich  paintings,  the  liveried  servants, 
the  entire  impression  as  of  a  great  castle,  which  together 
formed  the  splendor  of  the  place,  but  it  was  the  noble,  wom- 
anly, most  amiable  Miss  Coutts  herself.  She  stood  in  her 
good-hearted,  simple  nature,  quite  in  contrast  to  the  show  of 
servants.  She  had  noticed  in  the  country  that  I  found  it  cold 
the  first  day  I  was  there.  It  was  not  yet  quite  warm,  and  so  a 
cheerful  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate.  It  was  very  cozy  here; 
there  were  books,  comfortable  arm-chairs,  sofas,  and  rococo 
furniture,  and  from  the  windows  a  view  out  over  a  little  gar- 
den to  Picadilly  and  the  great  park. 

Just  outside  London  lies  Miss  Coutts's  country  house  and 
garden.  Here  there  are  great  avenues  of  rhododendrons,  that 
strewed  their  red  flowers  over  the  carriage  in  which  I  rode  ; 
immense  cedar-trees,  and  rare  plants  \  and  in  the  hot-house 
grew  palms,  grapes,  bananas,  and  fragrant  fruits,  in  such 
abundance  as  I  never  before  had  seen.  From  all  this  splen- 
dor the  proprietor  carried  me  to  a  little  kitchen  garden  with 
pease  and  beans  ;  she  seemed  to  like  this  place  best ;  it  was 
as  if  these  plants,  which  grew  to  so  much  use,  especially  satis- 
fied her.  Before  us  lay  London,  half  concealed  in  smoke  ;  the 
railway  train  came  and  went  with  screaming  pipe  and  rushing 
cloud  of  vapor. 

One  other  home  that  I  found  in  London  I  must  name,  —  a 
home  where  the  greatest  sympathy  and  attention  were  shown 
me  both  by  elders  and  children.  It  was  at  my  publisher's, 
the  well-known  and  honored  Richard  Bentley.  He  has  been 
Dickens's  publisher,  and  since  that  Marrj-att's.  "  The  Im- 
provisatore  "  and  most  of  my  other  writings  have  appeared  in 
English  with  his  imprint.  The  house  where  he  transacts  his 
business  is  in  town,  but  he  lives  with  his  family  in  one  of  the 
outskirts  of  London,  almost  in  the  country.  Here  I  saw  kind 
faces,  heard  music,  and  felt  myself  understood,  and  was  happy. 
Here  and  at  Gadshill  I  was  with  friends  ;  Gadshill  was  at  a 
distance  from  London,  quite  in  the  open  country,  and  it  was 
refreshing  to  go  there  from  the  heated,  dust}',  noisy  city  of  the 
world.     Upon  the  back  of  the  steam-dragon  I  delighted  to  go 


A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE.       289 

there,  while  the  setting  sun  shone  on  the  Crystal  Palace,  and 
upon  the  great  waves  which  would  roll  in  the  Thames  when 
the  wind  blew.  From  Higham  I  walked  in  the  quiet  evening 
up  to  the  friendly  home  where  the  light  shone  and  music 
greeted  me.  Miss  Mary  and  her  aunt  played  pieces  from 
Beethoven,  Mozart,  and  Mendelssohn.  How  sociable  it  was 
in  that  little  room  at  the  piano,  where  Dickens  with  his  wife 
and  guests  sat  in  company  ;  afterward  in  the  starlit  evening, 
and  in  the  moonlight,  we  went  out  on  the  grass  free  from  dew. 
There  was  a  peace  brooding  over  all,  the  sky  hung  over  us 
high  and  clear ;  how  often  I  thought  not  of  this,  and  thereby 
grew  moody  ;  after  the  lapse  of  days  this  time  will  become 
like  a  vanished  dream,  dead  as  music  which  but  recently  was 
sung ;  the  music  can  be  enjoyed  again,  perhaps  if  in  the  same 
mood  as  when  I  heard  it  I  can  hear  it  again,  but  this  time 
spent  at  this  place  can  never  come  to  me  again.  One  evening 
when  I  was  feeling  thus,  Dickens  suddenly  seized  my  hand, 
and  with  unutterable  kindness,  as  if  he  could  see  into  my  very 
thoughts,  he  bade  me  stay  with  them  still  longer,  and  see  the 
dramatic  entertainment  in  which  he  and  several  of  his  family 
were  to  take  part ;  he  told  me  how  glad  he  was  at  having  me 
with  him  •  he  took  me  in  his  arms;  I  felt  that  he  understood 
me,  that  I  was  welcome  there,  for  it  shone  from  his  eyes  and 
sounded  full  in  his  hearty  voice.  This  was  a  happy  time, 
days  full  of  joy,  and  yet  there  came  a  moment  of  heaviness, 
not  from  within  but  from  without ;  this  time  it  was  a  criticism 
on  my  last  book  which  put  me  in  ill-humor,  as  it  ought  not.  I 
mention  it  here  only  to  tell  the  impression  which  Dickens's 
inexpressible  kindness  made  upon  me.  He  came  from  Lon- 
don, where  he  had  been  for  a  day  or  two.  I  had  been  going 
about,  gloomy  and  reserved,  tormenting  myself.  Dickens 
found  out  what  was  the  matter  with  me,  and  at  once  let  off 
a  whole  piece  of  fire-works  of  jest  and  quips ;  and  when  still 
this  did  not  make  its  way  into  the  dark  crooks  of  my  ill-hu- 
mor, a  seriousness  followed,  which  was  full  of  heartfelt  care 
for  me,  such  warm  appreciation,  that  I  felt  myself  raised  up, 
strengthened,  and  filled  with  pleasure,  and  a  strong  desire  to 
merit  his  regard.  I  looked  into  my  friend's  bright,  gentle  eyes, 
and  I  dared  thank  a  severe  critic  for  bringing  me  one  of  the 
19 


290       A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICI^ENS'S  HOUSE. 

most  enjoyable  moments  of  m}^  life.  The  dark  sea  of  jcrief 
had  cast  up  the  rich  amber  of  sj^mpath}'^  for  me.  On  this  oc- 
casion Dickens  told  me  the  judgment,  now  so  amusing  to  us, 
passed  upon  Shakespeare's  "  Macbeth  "  by  one  of  the  great 
poet's  clever  contemporaries.  The  opinion  ran  somewhat 
thus  :  "  Mr.  Shakespeare  has  written  a  new  tragedy,  "  Mac- 
beth," but  a  greater  piece  of  nonsense  was  never  before  com- 
mitted to  paper."  I  was  soon  in  good  humor  again  ;  I  saw  the 
world  in  sunshine,  and  one  cannot  help  that  who  lives  with 
Dickens  ;  his  sparkling  conversation  warms  and  lights  one  ; 
the  glance  of  his  soul  in  his  eye  wins  your  confidence  —  it  rec- 
ognizes and  appreciates  every  one  who  comes  within  its  range. 

The  old  countryman  whose  cows  and  sheep  grazed  up  by 
the  monument,  near  Gadshill,  knew  that  I  was  staying  with 
Dickens,  and  told  me  that  he  brought  us  fresh  bread  everyday. 
"  They  are  splendid  people !  "  said  he  ;  "  j'^ou  can  see  that 
at  once  of  both  of  them."  They  had  both  talked  so  frankly 
and  kindly  with  him.  "  Aye,"  he  went  on,  "  and  some  years 
ago  there  also  lived  close  by  here  a  lady  who  was  called  the 
Swedish  Nightingale,"  —  it  was  Jenny  Lind  who  lived  here ; 
"  she  was  also  just  such  a  person,  just  as  kind  and  honest  as 
Mr.  Dickens." 

I  went  to  find  the  place  where  Jenny  Lind  had  stayed ;  the 
windows  were  plastered  over,  the  door  fastened  up,  no  one 
lived  there ;  the  cage  was  empt}'^,  the  nightingale  had  flown 
away.  Many  thoughts  and  old  memories  were  awakened  in 
me,  and  I  never  went  by  the  place  that  there  did  not  come 
over  me  a  peculiar  sadness. 

The  time  soon  came  for  me  to  leave  Gadshill  and  Dickens ; 
but  first  I  was  to  discover  how  great  an  actor  there  was  in  him. 
The  rehearsals  for  the  dramatic  entertainment  for  the  benefit 
of  Douglas  Jerrold's  widow  called  us  for  a  week  to  London. 
Dickens  was  to  read  his  "Christmas  Carol"  in  St.  Martin's 
Hall.  The  Adelphi  Theatre  contributed  its  portion  by  bring- 
ing out  Jerrold's  two  best  known  pieces,  "  The  Rent  Day,  " 
and  "Black  Eyed  Susan."  The  chief  attraction,  however,  was 
the  representation,  in  which  Dickens  and  some  of  his  family 
and  friends  took  part,  of  a  new  romantic  drama,  "The  Fro/':en 
Deep,"  by  Wilkie  Collins  ;  the  author  was  to  act  the  part  of 
one  of  the  lovers,  Dickens  that  of  the  other. 


A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE.        29 1 

It  had  long  been  the  Queen's  wish  to  see  one  of  the  enter- 
tainments which  Dickens  gave.  Her  majesty  and  court  were 
to  be  present  at  one  of  these,  an  evening  or  two  before  the 
regular  time,  at  the  little  theatre,  The  Gallery  of  Illustration. 
The  Queen,  Prince  Albert,  the  royal  children,  as  well  also  as 
the  young  Prince  and  Princess  of  Prussia,  and  his  majesty  the 
King  of  Belgium,  were  present.  Besides  this  high  society,  there 
was  a  select  audience  admitted,  almost  exclusively  family 
friends  of  the  players.  From  Dickens's  house  went  his  wife, 
his  mother-in-law,  and  myself 

Had  we  gone  to  London  Sunday  evening  by  the  last  train, 
and  not,  as  we  accidentally  did  Monday  morning,  the  whole 
affair  might  have  had  a  most  sorrowful  ending.  I  saw  the 
evening  train  leave  Gadshill,  and  two  stations  from  London 
occurred  the  most  frightful  collision,  an  account  of  which  we 
read  the  next  morning  at  the  place  itself,  while  we  were  on 
the  train  for  London.  The  train  was  in  readiness  the  evening 
before ;  all  were  in  their  places  ready  to  start,  when  another 
train  came  behind;  the  conductor  made  no  signal  that  the 
train  in  advance  was  still  at  the  station,  and  it  came  upon  it 
with  great  violence  ;  the  rear  carriages  filled  with  peojDle  were 
crushed,  thirteen  persons  were  instantly  killed,  and  twenty-four 
had  arms  or  legs  broken. 

It  had  been  a  fearful  sight.  I  talked  with  a  gentleman 
whose  house  was  quite  near  the  station  where  the  accident 
occurred  ;  he  had  been  just  on  the  point  of  going  to  bed, 
when  he  heard  the  collision,  the  cry  of  despair,  and  the  piercing 
shrieks  of  the  wounded  and  spectators.  He  flew  to  the  spot ; 
carriages  and  people  lay  in  a  hideous  ruin,  wet  with  blood.  It 
was  a  peculiar  feeling  which  one  had  who  passed  over  the 
place  in  the  train  that  came  next  after.  A  strong  attempt  was 
made  to  discover  the  one  to  blame,  and  the  railway  company 
was  compelled  to  pay  not  less  than  seventy  thousand  pounds 
sterling  to  the  heirs  of  those  who  were  killed. 

In  the  Gallery  of  Illustration  the  hall  was  beautifully  decked 
with  flowers  and  green  leaves,  in  honor  of  the  Queen's  pres- 
ence. A  separate  buffet  was  spread  with  refreshments  for  the 
royal  guests,  and  another  for  us  who  had  been  invited  to  be 
present  at  the  entertainment,  which  was  given  several  evenings 
before  the  public  one,  which  I  also  attended. 


292        A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 

The  story  of  the  play  is  briefly  this  :  A  young  naval  officer, 
Richard  Wardour,  and  Clara  Burnham  have  grown  up  from 
childhood,  and  are  attached  to  one  another ;  but  with  Richard 
the  feeling  is  one  of  love,  and  when  he  learns  that  Clara  is 
betrothed  to  another  naval  officer,  Frank  Aldersby,  he  believes 
that  the  betrothal  is  an  arrangement  of  her  family,  and  that  she 
does  not  love  her  betrothed,  but  on  the  contrary  loves  him. 
Both  the  lovers  go  on  an  expedition  to  the  North  Pole,  but  in 
different  ships  ;  the  young  girl,  who  loves  her  betrothed  and 
not  Richard  Wardour,  spends  most  unhappy  days  in  the  fear 
that  the  rivals  will  meet. 

In  the  second  act  the  scene  is  at  the  North  Pole,  where  both 
ships  lie  frozen  in.  The  action  is  in  the  cabin  of  one  of  the 
vessels.  The  snow  is  falling  outside  ;  Frank  Aldersby  lives 
happy  in  his  love,  and  sees  in  the  smoke  of  the  fire  the  pic- 
ture of  his  love.  Now  enters  Richard  Wardour,  and  by  the 
drawing  of  lots  it  falls  out  that  these  two  are  to  set  out  to- 
gether from  the  ship  to  find  land  and  people.  One  is  certain 
that  the  ball  with  which  Richard  Wardour  loads  his  rifle  will 
enter  the  happy  lover's  heart  ;  but  out  on  the  frozen  deep,  in 
the  snow,  fog,  and  storm,  strayed  away  and  lost,  in  dire  neces- 
sity and  deadly  peril,  the  nobler  nature  awakes  in  Richard. 
He  believes  that  Frank  not  only  loves,  but  is  loved  in  turn  by 
Clara,  and  now  in  his  affection  for  her  it  becomes  Richard's 
whole  aim  to  save  and  guard  him  for  her.  At  the  close  of 
the  piece,  when  Clara,  with  the  wife  of  another  of  the  naval 
officers,  journeys  to  Newfoundland  to  get  some  tidings,  if  pos- 
sible, of  the  lost  ships,  Richard,  feeble,  and  shaking  in  body 
and  soul,  brings  his  young  friend  to  Clara,  and  dies  after  the 
exertion,  sinking  down  before  her. 

Dickens  acted  Richard's  part  with  remarkable  truthfulness 
and  great  dramatic  power.  He  gave  it  with  a  repose,  a  fidel- 
ity to  nature,  which  was  quite  different  from  the  usual  manner 
in  which  tragedy  is  played  in  England  and  France.  With  us 
at  home,  if  one  did  not  know  he  was  a  great  writer,  he  would 
at  once  be  recognized  and  appreciated  as  an  actor.  He  was 
in  many  respects  like  Michael  Wiehe.  Besides  Dickens  there 
also  appeared  in  the  same  piece  his  two  daughters,  his  eldest 
son,  both  his  sisters-in-law,  and  his  brother  Alfred.  Collins 
himself  played  the  part  of  Frank  Aldersby. 


A    VISIT  AT  CHARLES  DICKENS'S  HOUSE. 


29; 


The  entertainment  given  for  her  majesty  the  Queen  closed 
with  "  Two  o'clock  in  the  Morning,"  a  farce  which  we  have 
under  the  name  of  "  A  Night  Visitor."  It  was  acted  with  ex- 
ceeding liveliness  and  sparkling  humor  by  Charles  Dickens 
and  the  editor  of  "  Punch,"  Mr.  Mark  Lemon.  The  two  also 
gave  at  the  regular  evening  afterward,  the  two  principal  char- 
acters in  the  farce  "  Uncle  John."  Dickens  was  quite  as  re- 
markable in  comedy  as  in  tragedy,  and  unquestionably  belongs 
among  the  first  actors  of  the  day. 

After  the  first  evening  all  the  players  and  attendants  gath- 
ered late  at  night  in  the  office  of  '^  Household  Words  "  for  a 
lively  night  of  it.  There  was  fun  and  happiness  and  spark- 
ling humor.  The  gathering  was  renewed  later,  in  the  country 
at  Albert  Smith's,  the  climber  of  Mont  Blanc,  of  whose  cap- 
ital account  of  the  ascent  we  at  home  here  can  read  in 
"  Bille's  Sketches  from  England." 

The  happy  days  at  Dickens's  house  fled  all  too  quickly  for 
me.  I  must  leave  the  celebrated  writer,  and  yet,  before  I 
reached  Denmark,  see  the  apotheosis  of  Germany's  poetic 
greatness.  I  was  invited  to  the  festival  in  Weimar  at  the  un- 
veiling of  Goethe's,  Schiller's,  and  Wieland's  statues.  From 
the  land  of  Shakespeare,  Dickens's  home,  I  went  now  to  the 
Minnesinger's  land,  to  the  poet-town  Weimar. 

Dickens  had  his  little  carriage  brought  round,  and  taking 
the  driver's  seat  carried  me  to  Maidstone,  where  I  took  rail  to 
Folkestone,  where  the  steamer  lay.  We  had  the  pleasure  thus 
of  an  hour  or  two  together,  and  that  in  the  most  charming 
part  of  Kent;  we  rolled  by  rich  fields  and  lovely  woodland. 
Dickens  was  full  of  fun  and  good  nature,  but  I  could  not 
arouse  myself  from  the  dismal  mood  into  which  I  had  entered 
at  the  prospect  of  departure.  At  the  railway  station  we  em- 
braced each  other ;  I  looked  into  his  honest,  affectionate  eyes  ; 
I  looked  at  him  whom  I  admire  as  a  writer  and  love  as  a 
man.  A  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  he  drove  away.  I  was 
hurried  off  by  the  train.  "  Gone,  gone,  and  that  is  the  way 
with  all  stories." 


fijl 


Date  Due 

t 

i»w>»    >  fa^  ^ 

^  li*Miå 

--* 

NCIf  RS 

^'i  9  1983 

i:°c'o 

*  ^-  fc/ 

Library  Bureau  Cat.  No.  1137                                                  1 

3  1210  00395  5687 


